Honestly, I Just Wanted To Buy Some Cat Food – Don’t Get Me Started!

As I stopped at one of the larger pet retailers on my way home from work yesterday I was met by that person we all have encountered on planes, trains and while shopping…the dreaded, “Let me talk to you like we’ve known one another for years” total stranger. You know the ones I’m talking about, they take the smallest thing and supposedly “strike up” a conversation with you when in reality all they’re really doing is talking at you, not with you and frankly it’s as annoying as hell. Honestly, I just wanted to buy some cat food – Don’t Get Me Started!

As I turned the aisle to get the cat food (I’m a power shopper at all times. I know exactly where things are and how much I’m going to get so I can get in and get out – you know, just like sex in a public place…okay, well, maybe not exactly like it, not that I would know really, I would have to defer to George Michael on this one.) I turned the corner into the aisle and there she was…she was about mid-sixties and was wearing a lipstick color about seven shades too dark for her. It made her look like some sort of odd makeup counter woman from the 1980’s or as if she just dropped out of a Nagel painting (and had aged…quite a bit). Her cart was in the middle of the aisle and she had walked to the far end of the aisle, looking at a can of cat food that I immediately recognized as a brand other than the one I buy my cats. As I started to take the cans I wanted off the shelf (on sale and two of each variety as it makes it easier and faster at the checkout if you have all your “like cans” together in the handheld basket) I hear, “Did you get one of these in the mail?” I look over at the voice (that could only be coming from the only other person in the aisle with me) I look at the can in her hand and do a half-smile with no eye contact and say, “Yes, I did.” Now for normal people this would end the conversation but oh no, not with the dark lipped talky Tallulah. As I continue getting cans off the shelf she starts the monologue. “Well, I got it in the mail too and now it’s all my cat will eat. Can you imagine? <she chuckles to herself as I’m wondering what could possibly be funny in what she said> Yes, that’s all my cat will eat. Did your cat eat it?” I respond with the response that I know will end the conversation, “No, my cat hated it.” Finished, right? Wrong. “Well, I have a cat that will only eat dry food but now my other cat is spoiled and will only eat this brand of moist food and it’s 99 cents a can so I only give it to the cat as a treat and my husband thinks I’m crazy <her husband is not alone> because he says that I should put whatever kind down and they’ll eat it when they get hungry enough. I suppose that might be true but I think that I’ll get an extra can because my cat will really enjoy it. What kind of food do you have there?” “Fancy Feast” I reply with no inflection in my voice as to encourage her to continue this conversation on any level. I have finally finished getting all the food I need and as I am almost out the aisle I hear, “How many cats do you have?” As I leave the aisle I look back and say, “Two. Have a nice day.” As my mother always says, “They’ll forgive you anything if you have a strong finish” and as I’ve spent my entire life trying to get people to like me, I have to leave her with a polite parting.

I know that some people would say that this woman was lonely or that she was just trying to connect with another human and I get all that but please don’t try to connect with me over the cat food. (Cocktails maybe but not cat food) I don’t live in Mayberry where everyone knows everyone else for a reason. Maybe if we were even buying the same kind of cat food or if she had said, “Can I ask your opinion?” it would have been different but that whole starter question and the monologue she delivered just put me off. I’m not saying she’s a horrible person or unworthy of conversation with me or anything like that I’m just saying that she chose the wrong person at the wrong time to start a conversation with on this day. I was rushing home after work, needed to get the cat food and wanted to get home. I get that it was probably on me, that I was not fit for human consumption this day but come on people, pick up the context clues, will ya?  

I think it’s more about the weirdness of these cat or dog people, a group that I could tell this woman was a part of, you know, the ones who call them their children, give them the front seat in the car and talk about them non stop. I do have two cats that I adore but I do not consider myself someone who has to spend their entire life talking with strangers as well as people I know about my cats’ activities and how cute they are to me. I get it that it’s like children, you can talk about them with your mate until you’re blue in the face but if you go on and on with anyone else, they’re bound to be bored in the face. I don’t want pot holders with cats on them, I don’t want a “Beware of the cat” sign at my front door and I sure as hell don’t want any porcelain statues of cats from the Franklin Mint. I love my cats but I don’t expect you to love them like I do or want to talk about them. So in retrospect I was probably not as nice as I should have been to this woman and being Jewish I’ll have guilt over it for at least a day but here’s the deal. Just know that not everyone wants to talk to everyone else in the world and sometimes a little space can go a long way. Honestly, I just wanted to buy some cat food – Don’t Get Me Started!

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Harry Potter And My Disappearing Weekend – Don’t Get Me Started!

< Don’t Worry No Spoilers Given – It’s all about me…isn’t everything?>

Long after the initial craze gripped us muggles like a spell cast by Lord You-Know-Who I gave in and picked up a copy of the first Harry Potter book. To let you know how behind the times I was, I didn’t pick up the first book until the first three were out in paperback. I had all my friends telling me I needed to read these books but mostly the requests came from my friends’ children who wanted an adult to discuss the book with and knowing that I have the attention span and mentality of a fourth grader, I was the perfect candidate. I had purchased the first one at an airport on one of my many business trips and upon reading the first one I was hooked. I read the first three than began playing the waiting game with everyone else for the future installments. Well, the last one was delivered to me last week and as I started reading it, I was more than capable of putting it down. That is until this weekend when it was me, Harry Potter and an entire bag of double stuffed mint Oreos (God help me). Harry Potter and my disappearing weekend – Don’t Get Me Started!

Let me say that I had no intention of getting so wrapped up into these books when I started reading them but I just couldn’t help myself. The sad part of course is that the friend whose daughter started me on these books has now moved onto college and left me with no one to discuss the intricacies of Hogwarts with at all. She just laughs at me when I bring it up and in fact when she got the information on her roommate at college for her freshman year, she was disgusted that the girl had listed Harry Potter books as something she was “in to” and she told me that she was all ready hating having to meet her, imagining the girl wanting to start throwing “Potter Parties” in her dorm room – yuck – as if. This was the same girl that was wearing the Potter glasses and fancying herself Hermione just a few years earlier. But alas, much like Peter Pan (because you know of course that I am him) my Wendy grew up, leaving me alone with the lost boys (an enviable position for most gays except for this one who has been with the same man for what will be nineteen years this August).

Now the first few Potter books were easy reads and while I just hated that second book, I managed through it. Then the tomes started coming, the 600 or 700 or 8,000 page books that I could barely hold in my hands let alone carry on a plane. I did curse ol’ JK for making those books so huge (and being an old theatre director at heart I did see some places she could have cut as to have made the pace better) but alas, it didn’t matter because I was hooked. I’ve always known that I have one of those personalities that once I start something I have to finish it, period (some might call it addictive, if you want to get ugly about it). But this also goes for anything like series of books or on television, if I’m watching or reading it, I’m going to see and/or read all of them. Another reason the Gods were smiling on me and didn’t make me Christian for I fear that I would be one of those people who need to have the entire Christmas porcelain village complete with mini flocked trees and tiny shoppers “rushing home with their treasures.” To date, I have managed to not collect anything in a porcelain variety but my mother is the queen of crap that has a certificate of authenticity. It’s supposedly going to make us a fortune one day, these artifacts signed by the artist but I have a feeling a million years from now when my parents pass I’ll be standing in a driveway trying to get someone to take the statues of rabbis with their certificates of authenticity off my hands for quarters on the dollar just to get rid of them at the estate/garage sale.

I had so many hopes for this past weekend, so much that I wanted to do but it began on Friday afternoon when I started really reading the latest Harry Potter. I had managed to put it down and pick it back up just fine for the first two hundred pages but then as I entered into the 300s look out. I couldn’t put it down. Like some strange cursed object it would not leave my hand. (Thank God one of my hands was free to give me sustenance – well if you can call it that – in a matter of three days I would eat an entire large bag of double stuffed mint Oreo cookies) There I was (having not showered or coifed, or even cared unfortunately for my mate) flipping pages, eating another Oreo, wiping the crumbs off of the page before going to the next page and then the whole process started all over again. The book went with me to the bathroom, to the sofa, to the bed and to the floor (as I tried desperately to find a position that was comfortable with this book the size of a Buick). As I laid on the floor, my cat would burrow his face in pages I had all ready read, then he would lay his head on the page I was reading, then in my ignoring him, he’d lay his back lengthwise against the top of the book in such a manner that I was dodging his tail like one of those windmills you encounter on a miniature golf course. He wouldn’t give up and neither would I.

Finally at 5:30pm last night (after cancelling Sunday dinner with my parents) I finished the book. Sure I was sweaty and looked like hell but it was over. I mean, really over. No longer would I have to wonder what happened to these characters, no longer would I have to wait for the next installment like a Star Wars geek. No, it was over and I was glad. I don’t know if I was glad because I had the knowledge of what had happened to the characters or if the anal retentive side of me was just delighted to be able to say that yet another series had been read, completed and was now finished. There was definitely a sense of accomplishment for the reading and yet what was that hideous remorse I was feeling? The Oreos. As I stuffed the empty bag deeper into the garbage and felt a little sick to my stomach, I grabbed my head. Was it the Potter scar burning on my forehead or just something else? Confirmed by the scale at the gym this morning - it was something else – the cookie hangover of a lifetime gave me something even more lasting this weekend – three pounds to work off. Curse you Voldemort, Harry Potter and even all the flipping house elves for the three pounds and even more damaging, a weekend I don’t even recall – a lost weekend. Harry Potter and my disappearing weekend – Don’t Get Me Started!

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Gay Baby Names – Don’t Get Me Started!

A dear friend of mine and her husband (one of the gayest straight men I’ve ever met and I’m betting that he is very excited that he gets to carry a man purse now and call it a “diaper bag”) welcomed their first child into the world and his name is Chance. I think it’s really a different choice for a child’s name. (Not bad different, like my grandmother used to say whenever she didn’t like what you were wearing or your new haircut and she would say, “Well, that’s different” but the tone was such that you knew she just hated it. This is not the different I meant although it’s always the first thought that comes to my mind whenever someone says the word and I immediately get defensive. A Pavlovian response to be sure, all someone has to do is mention the word “different” and I immediately become defensive, hurt and start striking back with full force gay sarcasm. It can be minutes before I hear them say, “Scott, stop I really just meant the color of your shirt was different than anything I’d ever seen.” Embarrassed, I do my best Emily Littella/Gilda Radner, “Oh, that’s very different. Never mind.”) But the more I heard this name, the cooler I thought it was and thought about how names can solicit such a response within us as to send our imaginations wild with what the name suggests the person is or in this case, is going to be when he’s grown. Let’s take this name, Chance. Chance is a kind of preppy guy who looks like an Abercrombie and Fitch sort, right? He’s good looking and well liked with an easy manner about him, right? He’s probably straight but cool that guys find him attractive too, not freaked out by it and doesn’t exploit it.  So in just the same way; I started to think about all the guys with names that say they’re gay right from the get go. (Now true, some gays actually use their middle name to get even gayer than their name already is or there are some who just use the fullness of their name like Stephen instead of Steve or Phillip to gay it up but there are still plenty of people naming their kids names that come with lisp included too, you know, like Bryce.) Do these parents not know they’re setting their kids up? Gay Baby Names – Don’t Get Me Started!

Now before you all get outraged, get over it. And tell me you never thought it was “unfortunate” when a friend named their child, “Oscar” and all you could think of is the fact that he’ll always be compared to the green Muppet that lives in a garbage can or Jack Klugman?

It’s not just “gay” names I don’t get. I don’t get all the made up, pseudo-African names that people are making up left and right. You know like Aquansha or Dasooti. What are these people thinking? These are not people like poor NBA great Anferney Hardaway’s mother who obviously thought she was spelling Anthony, no these people are really going out of their way to come up with stupid names that make no sense. And can anyone explain to me the whole apostrophe atrocities that occur like D’Onfre or D’Mia – me a don’t understand. Finally there are the people who name their children after a product, like Lexus or Perrier because they think the names are “pretty” – dear God people, you have a child here, it’s not a sparkling water and nine times out of ten they end up with the personality of a dead flashlight battery (size D). Not to mention the real tragedy which of course we all know is that they’ll never be able to find a souvenir miniature license plate with their name on it when on vacation!

I was very fortunate that my mother’s first choice of name for me got nixed at the last minute (though I think some of the gayness definitely remained). My name was going to be Seth. A nice name but can you imagine an effeminate boy saying over and over again, “Yeth my name is Seth?” (I can hear you laughing from here – I am too) This may be the only calamity I managed to avoid in my life but even if it’s the only one, at least we know it was a good one. Having been given the name Scott there’s really not much you can do to gay it up other than if I was a twink then I could use, “Scotty” but that’s about it.

Some names are much more gayable than others. Let’s play the gay name game, shall we? First you start out with a name and you gay it up to fit the gay stereotype. (Fill in additional stereotypes and names for fun)

Here we go – Michael

• Twink – Mikey
• Bear – Mike
• Corporate Gay – Michael

 Here’s another one – Robert

• Twink – Bobby
• Bear – Bob or Rob
• Corporate Gay – Robert

 Now see if you can do one – (it’s a little tougher and I’ll put the answers in backward so you can guess first) – William

• Twink – (ylliB)
• Bear – (lliB)
• Corporate Gay  - (mailliW)

 Sometimes when I meet someone I really wonder how their parents knew that they were going to be gay when they gave them such a great gay name but most of the gays did it to themselves by getting a little too creative for their own good. You know the ones who choose the whole first initial and then middle name business because the first name is too common for them (i.e., Michael Blaine Smith becomes M. Blaine Smith) or the ones who initial themselves up to give a little acronym meets army kind of feel that usually ends in an “R”  (i.e., T. R., J.R., etc.). No, we gays just don’t know when to leave good things alone – if there’s a couch we’re putting contrasting throw pillows on it, if it’s our name we’re gaying it up. Although there’s no denying that without their knowledge, sometimes parents help out with the initial canvas that is our name, which sometimes, we later redecorate. Gay Baby Names – Don’t Get Me Started!

 
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Tim Donaghy And Michael Vick Scandals Make Me Happy – Don’t Get Me Started!

Okay, as someone who was never picked to be on any team in school or beyond, I can’t help myself but be a bit giddy as the sports world gets rocked by two major scandals. That’s right, to all the jocks who threw me into lockers, made fun of me or chased me down the hall screaming, “Faggot” I’m so glad that some of your heroes have turned out to be zeros (isn’t that how the old phrase goes?). Let’s face it, when it comes to what are mostly uneducated superstars of the sports world making billions and billions of dollars we should all either reconsider the importance our society puts on sports figures or start throwing a ball immediately (and no, not the kind that Cinderella went to and left a shoe at because you know if that’s the kind of ball we’re talking about I’d all ready be a superstar). Tim Donaghy and Michael Vick scandals make me happy – Don’t Get Me Started!

The Michael Vick scandal (for those who don’t know) is that this big NFL Atlanta Falcons superstar quarterback has been nabbed for running dog fights and brutally killing the losing dogs. I don’t know about you but the whole pit bulls and other dogs being raised to do this kind of fighting is so distasteful to me that I can’t even imagine the scum that go to these things, bet on them and watch as dogs tear one another apart much less the “masterminds” behind arranging and running these things. This is when I start thinking that whole “eye for an eye” thing isn’t so crazy. I say they take those dogs (that usually can’t be re-socialized with other animals or humans) put them in a cage that contains the inhumane idiots like Michael Vick and just let the dogs have at it. (And this is where my true nature as a Scorpio comes out) I really think that these posturing macho idiots who need to raise dogs to be killers to make them feel better about themselves really deserve a taste of their own medicine. I’m not a big fan of the whole cage fighting thing but at least that’s two humans. I mean look at the guys who do that – what else would they really do? They’re so steroided up that their options are limited since they can barely get a pair of jeans over their 75” calves. As I see it they can either train people at a gym, tow cars (without the use of a truck) or cage fight. But they’re humans and know what they’re doing, the dogs don’t and someone needs to put a choke collar on them. (And if it had a little electric shock in it, I wouldn’t mind either)

The Tim Donaghy scandal is that an NBA referee has been caught not only betting on games that he refereed but also possibly doing some point fixing to ensure his bets would pay off. Now I don’t know what these guys get paid but I’m sure they’re not drawing in the salaries of say a Shaq. I’m not saying that they should be able to bet and fix sporting events but honestly, at the end of the day, I’m not losing any sleep because the guy who painted his overweight chest in his NBA team’s colors and is wearing a foam finger doesn’t get to see a “fair” game.

I’m an old school gay who cares more about Broadway than a ballgame. (Which makes me cynical and bitter about these sports figures all at the same time.) I think for anyone to think that any of these sporting events haven’t had “help” along the way are just kidding themselves. The deal is that between the Olympics and Tour De France doping, what, do you think there isn’t this kind of corruption widespread in your favorite sport? Look at the baseball players who have arms as big as houses with foreheads that come out like an awning on a sidewalk café and tell me how they supposedly aren’t on the steroids.

The problem is that we’ve started believing the action movies that had Arnold Schwarzenegger in them in the 80’s and when we were raising the bar on our expectations for our sports heroes we never told them to do it without the use of illegal substances. In fact, we encouraged them to get bigger and better no matter what the personal or societal cost. So, we’re reaping what we sow at this point.

Sports figures and celebrities become rich, famous and celebrated and yes, we all like to see their foot slip a little. Why you ask? Because when the popular kids in school excluded us or jocks beat us up, you just keep telling yourself as you’re picking your books off the ground and wiping their spit off you that what goes around comes around and someday they’ll get theirs. Not every celebrity is Oprah, Bono or Andre Agassi who go above and beyond to help others and make the world a better place. Some are just the dumb jocks and pretty popular people from high school who got lucky. So let Lohan go to jail, “sick” the dogs on Vick and take away Donaghy’s livelihood but at the end of the day, until we start rewarding and celebrating the people who make a difference in our lives and not the people who just got lucky and are soulless losers, we’re doomed to turn out more and more of this type of person. And when they fall from grace we’ll be there like pitbulls because wouldn’t you like to think that good people deserve the riches life has to offer? Wouldn’t you like to see the meek instead of the meatheads inherit the earth? Tim Donaghy and Michael Vick scandals make me happy – Don’t Get Me Started!

 
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Our Next Contestant On Celebrity Drunk Tank Is Lindsay Lohan – Don’t Get Me Started!

I’m done do you hear me? Absolutely done with all of these drunken drugged up celebrities and their multiple violations of driving drunk taking other people’s lives in their unworthy hands (notice I didn’t say anything about the celebs’ lives because if they’re driving drunk they all ready chose to think so little of their own life that I have no real concern for them). When will enough be enough and why are we so forgiving or desperately seeking their photographs? I can’t get excited or even interested in looking at the latest mug shot posted on www.tmz.com and I’m just wondering why everyone else doesn’t feel the same way? Our next contestant on Celebrity Drunk Tank is Lindsay Lohan – Don’t Get Me Started!

From the May 29, 2007 Don’t Get Me Started Blog, here’s my big idea for the Celebrity Drunk Tank…

I just think it’s about time we show the world that we’re not as stupid and starry eyed as we look when it comes to celebrities taking the lives of others in their hands because they were drunk. I’m suggesting that it’s time to make a celebrity jail. It won’t be like Promises (the famous Malibu rehab that most stars go to get away from their legal responsibilities when driving under the influence or other legal troubles). No, the celeb prison would be a place where there are only celebrities so they wouldn’t have to worry about being with the rest of prison population but they would have to pay to have it built and they would have to pay at least $1,000 a day to stay there. Already we could build a Mel Gibson, Brandy, Paris and Lohan wing (and that’s just the drunk tank). Similar to the way they treated the famous drunk, “Otis” in Mayberry on the Andy Griffith show, the celebs would just sit on display and anyone could come and look at them like animals in a zoo. This would create additional revenue and would assist the stars from not going into withdrawals from the press not following them. You could pay $10 to just watch them in their cells detoxing and for an extra $25 you could taunt them with your cell phone as you watch them go ballistic because they haven’t been able to text anyone the entire time they’ve been in jail. This would also serve as a way to show everyone that these celebs are no better than anyone else and in fact they’re a little more pathetic than most of us. Big signs would read, “Don’t feed the prisoners egos.”

As you can see, it would make money and also do something that no one else seems to do when it comes to these drunken celebs, let them know that they’ve gone too far and there’s a price to pay. Who cares if they’re humiliated or their egos are bruised? Didn’t they all ready choose to do that all by themselves getting out of limos drunk without panties or going on racial tirades? Oh, I forgot, Mr. Gibson doesn’t hate Jews (like his father who claims the Holocaust was just made up by the Jews and didn’t really exist) no it was just because he was drunk. Yeah, right.

For years I’ve contemplated becoming an alcoholic because I wanted to be able to say whatever the fuck I want and have my friends and family make excuses for me and enable me. You know, I could say something really vicious and hateful and then my friend would say to the recipient of my poisonous tongue lashing (who is sitting there dazed, shocked and in disbelief that anyone would say what I did), “Oh, I’m so sorry. Scott was never like this before…well before the…you see, it’s just that…well <whispering and doing that shoulders up with cringing face look> it’s the alcohol.” I’d spend my days and nights being perfectly hideous to everyone and blaming the hooch for all of it. What a wonderful dream and I guess that’s what the celebs like about it. They’re never really held accountable. Well, now that I think about…where do I sign up? I promise I won’t drive but I want that whole being nasty and no consequences, having people pay your bills, pick you up off the floor and buy you another round.

You see, I’ve put in forty-two years of “towing the line” and being the good friend, brother, son, spouse to everyone. I don’t miss birthdays (calls, cards and often gifts), I listen to them go on endlessly about shit that doesn’t matter all the while not only acting interested but giving appropriate responses that are much more than how a therapist would respond. No, “uh huh”…”mmm, I see what you mean” here but actual responses (when I can get a word in edgewise). I want to be done with being a good person and become a big drunken shitheel! There’s a line from the Neil Simon movie, Only When I Laugh that James CoCo delivers about wanting to be a big star that applies here. “Oh God, I wanna be a star so bad. I don’t mean a little star; I want to be a big star. With three agents and a business manager and a press agent. And then I would fire all of them and I would hire new ones because I am such a big star. And I would make everybody pay for the twenty-two years I have poured into this business. I wouldn’t do benefits, I wouldn’t give money to charities; I would become one of the great shitheels of all time. Isn’t that a wonderful dream, Georgia?”

Of course there are more than a few problems with this plan. You see I’m not all that fond of the taste of alcohol and when I do drink it has to be a good brand otherwise I’m not getting involved at all. A Grey Goose or Belvedere extra extra extra dirty martini straight up with blue cheese olives is about as serious as I get when it comes to alcoholic beverages. Usually it’s cranberry and Absolut (because it helps the urinary tract at the same time) or something that tastes as little like alcohol as possible, like a Mojito or some other frilly drink. (But the frilly drinks are killer to throw up so they’re out for this plan)

You see, us Jews don’t drink on the whole, we eat. We get drunk on a good buffet with white fish and some decent lox instead of Heinekens. The next reason I couldn’t do it is because I couldn’t be passing out all over God’s creation. (See pic of Nick Nolte’s recent pass out in the airport from tmz.com) Finally, it would make me smoke cigarettes. Like most gays, I like having a cocktail (say the full word, boys) and a cigarette to gesture with in hopes of being just a little more like Bette Davis. Oh, make no mistake about it; I don’t want to mince around in drag. I just want to have a cocktail and cigarette in the same hand, pointing at people and saying things like, “You…yes, you over there. <takes drag off cigarette and sip from martini then blowing smoke in someone else’s general direction> what the hell have you got on? You’ve got to be over forty and you’re going sleeveless with capris on? I don’t care what your grandmother wore putting the clothes out on the line, you look like a smacked ass! Has anyone ever told you that? <changes the cocktail into the other hand, takes another drag off the cigarette then flicks the ashes pointedly> Well now someone has! Get out of my sight, you!” Okay, don’t normally explain stuff like this but that last dialogue is very funny to me on many levels 1) I’ve gotten more shit about the forty and sleeveless blog than any other blog I’ve written (read it here with all the comments… http://hubpages.com/hub/Do_Not_Go_Sleeveless_After_Forty_Just_Trust_Me_On_This_One ) 2) My grandmother did wear sleeveless blouses all the time and yes, while putting the clothes out on the line and 3) My other grandmother used to use the phrase “You look like a smacked ass” whenever I wore something she didn’t think was nice or appropriate.

I’ve read all the comments people leave on websites about how they feel so badly for Lindsay Lohan or Paris or even Mel Gibson but I don’t feel one bit sorry for them. I don’t want to hear about the pressures they have because I could make any of their stupid shit look like a walk in the park. I think it’s time we let Lindsay Lohan slip into obscurity. Do we really need her? I don’t think so. I’m actually surprised that the execs at VH1 haven’t thought about the whole Celebrity Drunk Tank show all ready. (But remember kids, you heard it here first so when they create it I can sue – cause after all, that’s what we Jews do, right?) Our next contestant on Celebrity Drunk Tank is Lindsay Lohan – Don’t Get Me Started!

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Hand Sanitizer Martini Anyone? – Don’t Get Me Started!

Okay, so a newsletter I write for (Sierra Gay Mens’ Network News & Blog www.sgmn.org) in their August edition is featuring a story about how “kids” are getting drunk on the hand sanitizer (I don’t know why but my family has always but “the” in front of everything – the drugs, the show business, the whatever). I was shocked and appalled (yes, both at the same time – it looks like one eyebrow raised, the mouth slightly open and in some cases a clutching of the imaginary pearls around your neck). I mean, I still don’t get the whole huffing of spray paint thing and now the kids are replacing Pina Coladas by going for the Purell? What will these crazy kids come up with next?  I don’t know about you but I did a lot of crazy things in my youth but I was never a glue eater or sniffer (okay maybe an occasional sniff of the model airplane glue but I always had to go to my brother to get it as I never graduated from the Snap-tite model series) and I seriously doubt I would be “drinking” (or chewing thanks to the texture of the stuff) hand sanitizer. Hand sanitizer martini anyone? – Don’t Get Me Started!

According to the story, kids are really getting sick on this stuff because the concentration of alcohol is so high that they are getting alcohol poisoning as well as sloppy drunk. And the thing is that the parents are thinking that their kids have concussions or something because who would suspect their kid of being Foster Brooks? No, Johnny must have hit his head on something. Not until they get them to the hospital are they finding out their toddlers are Lindsay Lohaneriffic. The other thing about this new craze is that some of the hand sanitizers have rubbing alcohol in them, which means that besides getting drunk, you’re ingesting a poisonous substance. And it isn’t just the kids that are drinking the hand sanitizer apparently drunks are finding it’s cheaper than ripple or Boone’s Farm. I remember the stories of drunks straining rubbing alcohol through a piece of white bread during The Depression. (And for those of you who are just catty bitches out there, NO I was not around for The Depression but I read, thank you very much and although I tend to be overdramatic I would never go so far as to call my “blue” days The Great Depression!)

The main thing about all of this (and the reason for this blog) is to let you know of yet another thing you can’t (or um…well, shouldn’t) put in your mouth. I’m sure you can all come up with a list on your own (not only of things that you shouldn’t put in your mouth but also people, places and things that have actually been in your mouth that you’re not all that proud of, yes?) so you don’t need my help there.

I’ve never liked the hand sanitizer craze even in its intended use. Some people are so hooked on it they’re worse than the Chap Stick and nose spray addicts. Have you ever been around an H.S.A. (Hand Sanitizer Addict)? I have and I have to say that it isn’t pretty. They are constantly pulling (you’ll excuse the expression) their little pink bottle out and rubbing it all over their hands like they’re a villain in a cartoon that just invented a new way to take over the world or something. Due to all the alcohol their hands are usually all dried out, red and chapped and to me, there’s no reason (as long as there’s moisturizer in this world) for anyone to be walking around all chapped (disclaimer - unless of course it’s a medical condition). Quick check your elbows! Speaking of chapped can someone explain to me why people who have the most dried out and chapped feet in the world feel the need to share them with the world by wearing flip flops or sandals? Surely you must know how bad your feet look so do you think that any of us want to look at them? Time to loofah and Lubriderm – repeat as needed.

But back to the matter at hand (get it?). There are no laws to not sell the hand sanitizer to kids (or drunks) so apparently some are having quite the time of it. However, let’s face it; these are people who are acting out in The Great Desperation. I can’t imagine with all the tasty drinks out there that people would give up their beloved Dirty Martinis for even the nicest scented hand sanitizers. I mean can you imagine the “Sweet Citrus Screwdriver” (be careful gays that was an awful lot of “S’s”) or the “Lavender and Chamomile Kamikaze” for those more quiet reflective times. Call me old fashioned but to me, there are some things that just shouldn’t be used for other purposes than they were intended. It reminds me of a gal pal of mine who was having a passionate time with herself and out of desperation grabbed a perfume bottle with an ornate top. Long story short, she ended up in the emergency room trying to explain why she had the top to her Chloe up her…well, you get the idea. So kids, take my advice…leave well enough alone. Leave the Chloe bottle on the perfume, things out of your mouth that have no business being there and the hand sanitizer on your hands. Hand sanitizer martini anyone? – Don’t Get Me Started!

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Weather Related Aches And Pains – Don’t Get Me Started!

I’ve never minded the whole growing old thing. I was never a “twink” turned into “boy toy” turned into “otter” then to “bear” – no, I have not followed the natural progression of the evolution of a gay man and that’s just okay with me. I have always been a short, dark and ethnic kid and that’s how I continue to see myself. You know, the Jewish Peter Pan! However, two days ago my knees started killing me. (Boys, get those minds up out of the gutter, please) I had no idea what could be causing such pain. I hadn’t worked out enough in the prior week to cause such problems and I couldn’t remember doing anything else that would remotely make my knees hurt. Then I saw the weather forecast. We here in Vegas are entering our yearly monsoon season and the first big wave was headed our way. Could it be? Could I have become one of those old people barometers for weather? Ugh. Weather related aches and pains – Don’t Get Me Started!

The Vegas monsoon season is yet another mystery of life that I don’t want to figure out. I had always thought that monsoons needed to be in tropical climates with some water near it but who knew? Having lived through them now monsoons just mean it’s 112 degrees and raining like I need to build an ark. Within a matter of minutes the road can go from being paved to a river. It’s fascinating (if you’re inside watching old Bette Davis movies) but if you have to drive in it, you’re basically screwed. The one good thing is that much like the Wicked Witch of the West, it appears to be the only thing that Vegas drivers are afraid of and will actually drive a bit more carefully or dare I say, drive properly. And that’s a good thing.

Well, it was such a shock to me when I woke up a couple of days ago and was walking around like Jack Wild doing his “Mechanical Boy” number from H.R. Puffenstuff or the Tin Man (everyone’s least favorite character) pre-oiling. Immediately I went through the prior three days to see if anything had occurred that would make me feel this way. Had I bent down to lift anything? No, completely safe in that category. Had I done squats at the gym? Come on who was I kidding considering even suggesting that I ever did squats at the gym? (I made myself giggle a bit on that one) And finally it dawned on me when I went out to get the morning paper that it was humid and since it’s never humid it must be a storm a coming. (Isn’t that what they say in all the old movies?)

Immediately I was disgusted. I started thinking about the times (back in the day) when my grandmother had rubbed her elbow and said, “Yup, there’s going to be a storm in the next couple of days. I can feel it in my bones.” I had just always thought that this was a tactic older people used when they had run out of things to say. It made them seem like they were a bit mystical and magical instead of kvetches that were pains in the ass. I mean, come on, what were they, like animals that instinctively went crazy before a storm because they knew it was a coming? And what did this mean to me, having never lived on a farm (or wanted to live on a farm)? Did this mean I was going to have to get an Old Farmer’s Almanac and start living my life according to ancient farmer superstitions and wives tales or did it just mean that I should start a new business becoming the Miss Cleo of a physic weather network? Everything about this recent turn of events was depressing and worse, a little painful.

I guess the worst part is that what do I tell people as I continually rub my knees? (I don’t know what this rubbing actually does for them other than to “heat” them up a bit due to the friction but I’ve seen other people do it so it must do something). I mean no one would believe that it was an old sports injury (I’m laughing at myself right now just thinking about trying to deliver this explanation to anyone with a straight face). I couldn’t say that it was a war injury because the closest I ever came to war was playing the card game with my brother as a kid or fighting over a sweater with a boy half my age at Banana Republic (I won) but in the end it would have probably looked better on him. When you tell people that you used to be a dancer, they just sort of give you the whole body scan and you can see exactly what they’re thinking…”Dancer, yeah, right…since when does dancing around to a Madonna song in your bedroom singing into a hairbrush make you a dancer? And considering Vogue really only involved the upper body, why do his knees hurt?” No, there’s no good excuse for someone like me so I guess I have to go with the dreaded, “Because I’m old.” Ugh.

Now before you all start writing in telling me that I should use cold or hot compresses, drink eel semen or take a supplement that I couldn’t even come close to pronouncing let me say that I’m all about the herbal remedies but physicians heal thyselves. I’m sure there’s some magic potion out there that some sheepherder found in the Himalayans and is only available on QVC but for now I’m just going to go with plain old Motrin. I love the Motrin. I don’t care if I have to crunch it up and snort it, it’s the only answer I have at this point and don’t they always say, “Do what you know?”

I can only hope that the storms pass soon because being gay and having knee problems is too good a set up even for those people who don’t normally tell jokes. (There are so many gay knee jokes going through my head at the moment I can barely keep typing.) So enough all ready, I’ll just have to face the fact that when a storm is a coming so will the knee pain because I’m old and as the alcoholics say, “Lord grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the drugs not to give a shit about knowing the difference.” Isn’t that how it goes? Weather related aches and pains – Don’t Get Me Started!

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My Mother Wants To Know Why I’m Not Perez Hilton – Don’t Get Me Started!

In a tone that verged on the edge of sounding like, “Why can’t you be more like your brother and take math seriously?” (This tactic was never used in my home as after all, we’re Jews we have better guilt guns than that, please. My parents always accepted that my brother and I were as different as different could be and how could they not? They themselves are the living, breathing version of the Green Acres couple so they know a little something about two different types of people loving and respecting one another…”Dahling I love you but give me Park Avenue.” You can read all about it on my All About Scott page here… http://www.somelikeitscott.com/somelikeitprologue.html ) But in a conversation yesterday my mother was going through her daily re-cap of the shows she watched, the roster of celebs she liked and didn’t like (and even managed pronounced one or two of their names correctly) she asked a question that left me a bit stunned. She always feels like Ponce de Leon, a great explorer supposedly discovering uncharted territories but much like Ponce, she has never quite found anything notable that anyone else didn’t all ready know about. You know, like Ponce finding Florida but never finding the Fountain of Youth. Well, she recently “discovered” Ross the Intern from Jay Leno, Celebrity Fit Club and Rosie’s blogs and then yesterday saw Perez Hilton on something. And in her own Mama Rose way, she said, “What is it with all these gays getting their own shows? You’re so much funnier and talented. I don’t understand it. Do you know that Perez Hilton gets something like four million hits a day on his website? Why can’t you be Perez Hilton? He’s a pig.”  My mother wants to know why I’m not Perez Hilton – Don’t Get Me Started!

As I said in a previous blog, to me, Perez Hilton is the Gay Anime Barney Rubble. He’s one big Neanderthal looking block of cheese with blue hair that has his sidekick glued to his fingers no doubt sending out very important text messages trying to “out” the Indian boy who Bobby Brady brought the baked beans to in a flashlight in the Grand Canyon Brady Bunch episode. (Kids if you’re my age, Bobby and the Indian boy were the original Brokeback Mountain…er Canyon boys!) That’s right, Perez prides himself on having no pride outing celebrities and drawing doodles on their pictures. I must admit that I’ve never been to his site (and don’t expect to any time soon) but this is the word on the street about what he does and his dare we call it, “his claim to fame?” The problem with this is that he is not the Rona Barrett or Hedda Hopper (see Hopper’s photo in the upper left corner of this page) of the day, he’s just a loud mouthed (getting larger every day) bitchy queen trying to bring the celebs down to his size (which from the looks of it is about 475 pounds at the moment).

In a very sad moment for gays everywhere (and the women who love them), Kathy Griffin put this rectangle with Colorforms hair on her show. How could she do that to us gays? That’s right, in order to get some paparazzi time or “paps” (as Kathy learned to say in London) she made a public appearance with Perez and all his fattitude. And yes, Perez was able to get some photographers to take their picture when they left the restaurant so “mission accomplished” I guess but come on Kathy, let me say what your own mother would say to you, “You’re better than that now aren’t you?” Don’t make us gays turn on you now.

Not to get too Oliver Stone conspiracy theory on you but I find it very interesting that the gays that are “making it” as of late are only the ones that fit the stereotypical image of gays from a 1955 Confidential Magazine article. That’s right, unless you’re a lisping, swishing and wrist dangling queen, no press time for you. Could it be that we gays are becoming more accepted in the many different varieties we come in or allow me to go all Agatha Christie on you for a moment and theorize that the straight executives (who talk frequently with Jesus) are (as my mother would say) planning their work and working their plan?

You see, if they can make us gays look really repulsive (even to us gays) then everyone might soon start saying, “Hmmm…well, the gays weren’t bad when they were tweezing the eyebrows on that cute little makeover show on cable or that Will and Grace show where we never had to think about them having sex but these gays are going too damn far now, Mildred. They are loud, obnoxious and they don’t even dress nicely anymore. No, I don’t want to see gays on television or anywhere else for that matter if this is the way they behave. They should not be seen or heard.” The thing is that some of us “normal” gays don’t want to see or hear it either.

Whether it’s a 23 year old manager from The Gap giving advice (and constantly playing with his bad haircut) online, Perez Hilton thinking he’s swishing his cell phone mightier than his sword, these people really don’t represent many of the gays I know, have written into my site or I’ve talked with recently. So why are they all over and practically they only gay images we see? And why are even gay execs (are you listening Bravo?) catering to these queens turned court jesters?
 

I saw a woman outside a church in LA being interviewed about the record setting settlement against the archdiocese there for the over 100 people who came forward about being abused by clergy. Her statement was something like, “I think a lot of these allegations are not true. And for those that are…well…I would tell them that they need to forgive.” She disgusted me. (Although I think I could forgive too for a million – cut me in) Could it be that whenever things start going not so well for church and straight that they look for a diversionary tactic to parade us gays out? Stop and think about it for a moment. Mad at the President over the war? Let’s bring out the fact that a senator was texting young boys. (Even though it was going on for years, notice when it came out in the press) See…it’s The Gays, not the President you should mad at…see those bad gays and how they recruit? And in some cases they get rid of two groups at once like with the whole media attention around the Isaiah Washington scandal where they took out gays and blacks with one stone. Oh my God, I AM turning into Oliver Stone.

The thing is that I wouldn’t mind if this Perez person was harmless but who is he to decide when someone should come out and why should he (like the paparazzi) be getting so much money to be so evil? Well, I don’t have the answers, just the questions on this one but I have to say that I won’t be clicking on his site and I’ll be turning the channel when Perez gets his own show this fall and eventually gets wheeled into the Celebrity Fit Club no doubt. I don’t know if I have sufficiently answered the question or not but for the hair and size alone, I will never be Perez Hilton – thank you, Jesus. My mother wants to know why I’m not Perez Hilton – Don’t Get Me Started!

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Ex-Gays Go Broadway? I Don’t Think So! – Don’t Get Me Started!

Today on Queerty.com (a site that I did write an article for once and now they’ve blocked me from being able to leave comments on the site…hmm…I know we didn’t sleep together so it can’t be that I was bad in bed or something….hmmmm…well, another matter for another day.) At any rate there’s an entry about how the ex-gays are lighting up the gay white way. Ex-gays go Broadway? I don’t think so – Don’t Get Me Started!

A wacko group claiming to “cure” gays of their homosexuality is running secret meetings for closeted Broadway stars, according to a new documentary, “Gay No More?” Bill Hussung - who produced and directed the film with his wife, Mashara Canino-Hussung - says audiences will be “shocked” to see 20 popular Broadway dancers and actors who belong to the Life Ministry support group meeting twice weekly in underground locations. “It’s an ex-gay movement with the core belief that you are gay because of a sexual trauma in your background. When you discover what that is, you can release it and be cured of gay desires,” Hussung said. “People will be shocked to learn how widespread among the New York theater community this is.”

You can read the piece from the link below and maybe even include comments (unlike me…God it’s good that bitter looks so good on me.) http://www.queerty.com/news/ex-gays-on-bway-20070719/

Okay as I’ve quoted many times before from Mel Brooks’ To Be Or Not To Be, “Without Jews, Gypsies and Faggots there would be no theatre!” I worked in theatre for a lot of years and yes, I can tell you that a lot of people get into this profession to get the attention and “love” that they couldn’t get from their parents, friends or lovers. They somehow feel that the applause is acceptance and love (and it is in a way). So I get that, actors, singers and dancers are a creative bunch but are just as or more screwed up than the general population. So I can see where the “cure” people could easily work their “magic” on these emotionally challenged and weakened people because the ex-gays are no different than a cult.

To those who are living in this day and age and are so afraid of being gay, I say shame on you. I’m not saying you have to come out or have Perez Hilton out you. (God, how awful is he? Thanks for setting us gays back another twenty years in the evolution of our species with your bitchy queen attitude, ridiculous swishing, dyed hair that makes you look like the gay anime Barney Rubble and generally being an embarrassment for all of us.) But it’s not 1950 when gays were not allowed to be seen or heard. With the help of reality television, Bravo and Lifetime you can’t turn the television on without seeing “a gay.”

I know, I get it, it’s an inner struggle. It’s something that people must come to in their own time, blah, blah, blah. But if you’re reading this (and looking over your shoulder for fear of the ex-gay police are coming to get you) all I’m asking is that you try to accept yourself. Hell even if you’re not gay, if you’re seven hundred pounds and wearing capris and a sleeveless top – accept yourself. If you’re six foot and one hundred pounds, accept yourself (and eat something, will you? What? You think that looks nice to be so bone thin? What are you a skeleton in a biology class? – Oh dear God, I’ve just become my Jewish mother!) Until we all start accepting ourselves, we’re going to constantly look for validation in all the wrong places. You know, like ex-gay cults, Paris Hilton for whatever we’re supposed to get out of her, and Britney Spears for what underwear not to wear.

What I’ve found is that shockingly enough, not that many people are so shocked by the gay thing anymore. (Exception – the South…the people who brought you Mammies, slavery and lynchings…see Gone With The Wind) So I find it shocking that the ex-gays are still waging a war that A) they have no chance of winning and B) that they’re the only ones who think it’s important to segregate, denigrate and fumigate one type of people. (Wait…a pattern emerges…could these people be from the south? (Okay, enough southern bashing for one blog, for the sake of the Designing Women cast – again, Lifetime Television for women and the gays who love them)

Bottom line, there’s a reason it’s been called the “Gay White Way” (later changed to the “Great” White Way) and no group of twenty misguided singers, dancers and actors that are taken down into the sewer system for clandestine meetings are going to make Broadway un-gay. (Wow, sounds like a new concept for a new grittier Phantom of the Opera…maybe that’s what they’re using against us…they sit the Broadway gays in a room and make them listen over and over to the Music Of The Night lyrics…”Let your mind start a journey through a strange new world, leave all thoughts of the life you knew before. Let your soul take you where you want to be!” Oh my God, how scary is it that without changing one word it totally applies? I’m scared. Quick see if they can say, “Masquerade” without lisping or at least lingering on the “S” sound…whew, safe…still gay. What do you hear when you play the Phantom CD backwards? “God hates fags?!” Well, we know that’s not true, God doesn’t really hate fags but I understand he wasn’t all that wild about Cats!)

At any rate I think that as long as Harvey Firestein is around Broadway is safe from the ex-gays and to those who are trying to not be gay, I wish you a lot of luck (and could you take Lance Bass with you? He’s on my last nerve and he’s going to Broadway into the cast of Hairspray – get him!). Ex-gays go Broadway? I don’t think so – Don’t Get Me Started!

 
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At Least Ten Reasons I Wouldn’t Make A Good Male Prostitute! – Don’t Get Me Started!

A friend of mine used to say that in his next life he wanted to come back as either a fat Soprano or a gorgeous dumb hunk who was hung to his knee. We used to fantasy about being the latter and how much money we could make as a prostitute and revel in the fact that we would be too dumb to have his Catholic or my Jewish background to cause us the enormous guilt that we felt would be associated with this profession if we did it in this life. He recently got liposuction and supposedly looks fabulous. Of course, it’s not the same as being hung to your knee but it does make him more attractive and although I prefer to shape my body naturally (going to the gym and trying to stay away from ice cream sandwiches) I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was jealous. But I want to stay completely natural in my body sculpting so that I won’t be disqualified from the Gay Games. (Okay, let’s face it; the only way that I’m going to the Gay Games is if they create a “Name That ShowTune” team. Which, by the way I’m sure I would score a perfect 10!) So while I was at the gym this morning, seeing all the men who probably could be (and since it’s Vegas, probably are) prostitutes, the list in my head started forming of all the reasons I could never be a prostitute, at least not in this life. So allow me to present at least ten reasons I wouldn’t make a good male prostitute! – Don’t Get Me Started!

1.  What would my mother say? I remember when I was an actor and she would tell people. Their response was always the same, “Oh, really…hmm…well, where does he act?” (said with great sarcasm) My mother would list my credits like a good agent but let’s face it, unless you’re on Law And Order no one thinks you could possibly be “acting” and be successful. So imagine what she would say if I was a prostitute and what the people would say, “Hmmm…oh, a prostitute eh, so where does he ‘tute’?” Not good.
2. I don’t have the right clothes. You know how some people look better naked and some look better in clothes? I don’t fall into either of these categories. The last article of clothing that looked great on me was a pair of Mouseketeer ears, and while I’m sure some people would be attracted to that from a kinky point of view, for me, it’s just the only hat that looks good on me and covers my bald spot better than a yarmulke. The thought of trying to feel good about myself in assless chaps just makes the whole endeavor seem even more than a little impossible for me.
3. I have a thing about cleanliness. I would be scrubbing my “dates” down like Meryl Streep in Silkwood and boiling them before they could even touch me. Imagine the turn off that would be? Much less the thought of me using that “hand sanitizer” on every part of their body before we could do anything. “Oh, you like your nipples played with? Oh, shit, where did that sanitizer go? Look under your ass for me, will ya?”
4. I would want my “services” to have catchy names. You know, like they do in famous delis, where they name the sandwiches after a celebrity? On my menu would be things like the Ethel Merman – For this service I would wear bright red lipstick, keep my mouth in a perfect “o” position and at the moment of climax I would do the end of “Rose’s Turn” from Gypsy, “For me, for me, for me…FORRR MEEEEE!” Or the Ben Affleck – A lot of sucking but not all that much talent.
5. I couldn’t imagine licking the ass of someone I don’t know (or of many of the people that I DO know either). Enough said.
6. While I’d like to think that I would be a high priced prostitute, I realize that I would probably be more like Morty the discount sock vendor at a flea market. The metal change belt would probably pinch the hell out of my naked skin as I made change for my customers.
7. I would haggle too much with my pimp. I can hear the conversation now. “Listen Meat, I’m telling you, that guy was so huge that I felt like one of those women in Mexico who get fucked by the horses. I need a little money for a massage or at the very least one of those doughnut cushions to sit on. And that other guy I did tonight, I’m telling you that I got carpal tunnel from him. I felt like Aunt Eller in the beginning of the musical Oklahoma, I was “churning the butter” for what seemed like hours but never got anything more than a dribble of clotted cream! Do you have the workman’s comp forms? My wrist is killing me.”
8. I’m too much of an organizer. I would probably have a union set up within weeks of working as a prostitute. I’d spend more time on the phone with the other prostitutes than with clients. I’d like to think of myself as the Norma Rae of prostitutes. “Listen Harry, you don’t have to stand for that shit (literally – after all, you told the “John” you’d only do the piss thing) look I’m going to call a guy I know and he’s going to really beat the shit out of that guy, how is that? And next time, you really need to be more clear in the initial negotiations, will you do that for me? And think about changing your name, Harry Restroom…I mean, come on…what do you think people are going to think with a name like that? Of course the think they can shit on you with a name like that! No, I’m not saying you should use your real last name, Berenstein, too much like that kids book about the bears. Just consider something like Harry Rod, even that would be better, will you?”
9. I have a really short attention span and I have a feeling that prostitutes are involved with orgies (and having never been involved in one in my life), not only do I think I would be shocked and doing a lot of inappropriate giggling (a nervous condition I’ve had since I was a youth. You know when you’re over a friend’s house as a kid and they’re getting yelled at? I would get so nervous that I would laugh – it always got me an invitation to the door and my friends in bigger trouble but I couldn’t and can’t help it to this day, it’s just my defense mechanism.) So even if I had my giggles under control, I think I would be distracted by all the wrong things. You know, like everyone would be getting naked and I would be asking where they got their jeans, who the designer was and how much they paid. Or I can see me saying things like, “Oh, a cock ring with crystals on it…now are those Swarovski? Is it hard to keep them so shiny? I mean the lube must really dull the sparkle. Oh look at that guy’s harness. I swear, feel it, it’s as soft as butter. Now that’s nice leather. It’s a shame he didn’t have a coat made out of it or something you can wear when you’re not, well, you know, just at an orgy.” Yeah, I can’t see them wanting me to be part of the orgy for long…ten minutes and I’d have a ball gag in my mouth and be hogtied in a corner.
10. I’m too needy. Afterward I would be asking my tricks way too many questions. “So you really liked it when I arched my back? You can tell me, I mean we don’t really even know one another so although I’ll be a little offended, I won’t be crushed. And what about when I howled at the moon? Turn on or turn off? So you like me? You really like me?”

No. I don’t see a future for me (in this life anyway) as a male prostitute. I’m not as pretty as Richard Gere in American Gigolo and while the thought of the crack allowing me to finally be “gay thin” is appealing, I can’t see myself injecting myself as I’m less a hypodermic freak and more a hypochondriac. So I’ll never be a crack whore. I’ll never be any kind of whore at all and for that there are several “Johns” sighing a collective sigh of relief because let’s face it, can you imagine me showing up at your hotel door? I can’t either. I’m sure there are more but these were at least ten reasons I wouldn’t make a good male prostitute! – Don’t Get Me Started!

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