Iowa Gays Can Marry (Is that can or is it going to quickly become "could"?)
Iowa
Allows Gay Marriage (For At Least Ten Minutes) – Don’t Get Me Started!
“Well, did you evah?” (and
that’s not a typo – years ago I was choreographing an Ethel Merman review and one of the songs was “Well
Did You Evah?” by Cole Porter and the first day of rehearsal, the director was going through all the songs and that’s
what he said after he said the title of this song, “and that’s not a typo!” I don’t know if he really
thought he was educating the cast or just liked saying it.) In any case, did you evah think we’d be looking at Iowa
as one of our more progressive states? Iowa allows gay marriage (for at least ten minutes) – Don’t Get Me Started!
All ready there’s
been stuff filed and probably next week we’ll see the opposition play hardball asking the courts to decide what the
judge said, what it means and how they can get us stuffed back into our gay closets (like one of those fake snakes from the
old can of peanuts gag your friends used to give you, I think it’s going to be harder than they realize). But regardless
of what eventually happens, let’s all take a moment to just be happy for those couples that got married today. All ready
much like the first baby born each year, the media has focused in on two undergrad students from Iowa State University who
were married this morning in front of their home. The two met on facebook about a year ago and now voila, they’re married.
I read some of the comments online from the local paper and there was everything from Iowan’s patting themselves on
the back for being one of the ten states that have given these rights to the person who wrote a long drawn out comment mocking
it all by saying that they met their dog a year ago on facebook and want to know why they can’t marry their dog.
As those of you who
read the blog on a regular basis know, I don’t know how I feel about the whole marriage thing. I know that we should
be able to have the same rights as other couples and I guess there’s no way to get around it but to put the word “marriage”
to it but for those of us who feel like Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell, that marriage is a piece of paper not needed by us,
I have to say that I want the rights but not necessarily the rice. I mean come on, I celebrated nineteen years with the same
man yesterday and just because no one ever gave me a gravy boat does that make it less of a union? I know, I know, in the
eyes of the law…but let’s face it, making it a law isn’t going to give it validity or make it acceptable
in the eyes of many. You can’t legislate feelings, try as we might and I’m glad for that one. Now don’t
get me wrong, as I said, we deserve equal rights and all the benefits that go with it, on that I want to be really clear but
I decided long ago to work on my own acceptance of myself and that’s more important to me at this point in my life than
whether or not Bravo will be doing more episodes of “Gay Weddings.”
I can feel all ready that some will think that I
am a traitor or that my gay card needs to be revoked for not all ready having my appointment to get fitted for matching tuxes
or moving to one of the ten states that allow gay marriages but remember that marriage is a personal choice that some straight
people make and some don’t and now some gays will hopefully be able to have that same choice in Iowa and beyond. Wanting
and having the choice is a good thing but please, for everyone’s sake, let’s understand that this is right for
some and not for others. A little respect goes a long way.
One of the great things about “the gays” is that we always wanted
to be recognized for who we are and to fall or rise on our own merit. Well now we are but let’s try not to screw this
up kids by giving the right-wing and media any fodder by showing up in wedding dresses for men and the typical, no-nonsense
matching suits for lesbians. Let’s just thank our lucky stars that we’ve seen so much progress in our lifetime
and today, let’s just be really happy for Tim and Sean who got married this morning. Iowa allows gay marriage (for at
least ten minutes) – Don’t Get Me Started!
Update: As I was finishing this blog looking
for the names of the two students who got married in Iowa this morning I came across “breaking news” that Judge
Robert Hanson issued a stay on the ruling he made yesterday ruling the ban on gay marriage was unconstitutional. No more licenses
will be given to gays until there’s more investigation and another ruling. Did I say ten minutes?
Designer Chewing Gum, No Really – Don’t Get Me Started!
On the whole I don’t know that I could really classify myself as a
gum chewer (as I don’t chew daily) but I do always have a pack in my car (makes a great air freshener if the pack is
new and really pepperminty) and in my briefcase just in case I need some mouth freshness in a hurry. So as the gum pieces
got smaller and sugar-free I went along with them never really thinking about the price. That is until I bought my most expensive
gum ever the other day, 5 the new gum from Wrigley. Designer chewing gum, no really – Don’t Get Me Started!
I have very fond
memories of getting in my Dad’s 1966 Cadillac and him always having a stick of gum to offer me and my brother. Most
of the time Dad gave us a classic gum, Wrigley’s DoubleMint but sometimes, just sometimes, it was the sugary rush of
Juicy Fruit. I can still see that yellow package and remember that when you used to put the stick of gum in your mouth the
sugar would sort of crystallize on your tongue as you began chewing it. The flavor didn’t last all that long but who
really cared? You were so sugared up you were happy.
Over the years I have to admit that whatever was the coolest packaging was what I went for while waiting to checkout
at the supermarket. I am a packaging whore. I am a marketing guy’s wet dream because if something looks good to me then
I’m buying it and it doesn’t really even matter what the product is, if it does its job or if eventually it will
give me cancer. This goes for hair products all the way down to gum. And it also explains my various “product graveyards”
in my home for everything from hair products to gum. In the case of hair products, I always think that I spent too much money
on them so I shouldn’t throw them away and that someday I just may want to try using one of the products again (something
incidentally, that never happens). Throwing a pack of gum away is an easier task for me. And please don’t think that
I’m some hoarder of all things as I am a big “heave hoer” from way back when it comes to things being too
cluttered but we all have our gray areas, don’t we?
Without realizing it, I guess I just got used to the whole short, stubby pieces of gum that look like Chicklets
on steroids that you push out of the plastic molded Snow White clear plastic coffins they live in or in a pack that folds
over (you know like Orbit or Stride gum, which has a package that folds over twice and though the gum is good, once again,
it’s all about the package for me). As long as it was sugar-free, tasted okay and looked sensational when I went to
offer a pal some gum, it was good for me. So when I saw the packaging for 5 gum, it had me at the matte black sleek envelope
case with some sort of “insert tab A into slot B closure” before I even cared if they had a flavor I was interested
in. Incidentally, I don’t get who names gum anymore but I want to sign up for that job. The best example is this new
5 Gum which comes in Rain, Cobalt and Flare. Anyone want to try and guess what the hell Cobalt tastes like or Flare or even
Rain? Or do you want to guess why it didn’t even matter to me? (Ah, once again, the marketing people know what they’re
doing) The point here is that when I opened the package to reveal these shiny alien blue wrappers, I was dazzled. What’s
even more is that when I took out the first piece I was sort of dumbfounded as it was a “stick” and not a piece.
That’s right; these are sticks like you remember sticks of gum in shape and size. I guess everything is truly new again.
I don’t know if I was more surprised by the shape or the fact that I had to remind myself that this is the way gum used
to come all the time. I felt really stupid (which like so many things, immediately goes into my blog) staring at the “odd”
shape as I unwrapped it. And I felt equally stupid that I didn’t even look at the price for being dazzled by the packaging.
This gum is about $1.50 but come on, in the gum world this is like having to take out a second mortgage, give up your first
male born and one of your testicles to buy it. (Of course you see that it didn’t stop me from purchasing it and yes,
I still have both testicles.)
I don’t know if it’s that I think the gum is too expensive, that we really don’t need designer gum or
if the main thing is that I wish I was six again in my Dad’s car getting my gum from him but it does seem to me that
as I grow older I ask myself questions about all the gazillion product choices that are out there that I’m not sure
we need. I remember gum as being something like most products that was associated with a character too and so I have to ask,
“Do we need this many different brands and flavors of gum? What ever happened to Bazooka? Or more importantly, Bazooka
Joe? With the awful cartoons we laughed at anyway? Is the Fruit Stripe zebra dead? He doesn’t call or write anymore.
What is the character associated with 5 Gum? A big number 5? Hardly the Fruit Stripe zebra with his wacky stripes or even
Bazooka Joe.” Even Tony the Tiger seems to be an extra on the box of Frosted Flakes (or whatever they’re calling
them now) instead of the star he once was at my breakfast table. Makes me feel not so G-R-R-R-E-A-T! Designer chewing gum,
no really – Don’t Get Me Started!
The Anti-Gay
Children’s Book – Don’t Get Me Started!
Richard
A. Cohen (not the Richard Cohen I used to do theatre with and was fabulous as Gregory Gardner in A Chorus Line) is an ex-gay
who is now taking his campaign to the kids with a children’s book titled, Alfie’s Home. The anti-gay children’s
book – Don’t Get Me Started!
Just in case you don’t get enough hate in your life or misunderstanding, the good news is that now your kids
and you can experience it without those big words and it comes with pictures. But I know some of you are dying to know the
storyline, right? Well here you go. Alfie is a boy whose mother spends most of her time apparently telling him about her problems
with his father. Next his father is a screamer (not in an overtly gay way, boys but a yeller if you will). Then there’s
Uncle Pete who comes and spends the night sometimes in the same bed with Alfie and touches him in strange and exotic ways.
Somehow this causes Alfie to be called, “faggot” at school as a teen. Alfie finally goes to a counselor (here’s
the good news – the counselor is black so at least there’s someone ethnic represented in the book) and he helps
Alfie see that he is not gay, gets Alfie’s parents counseling and eventually gets a full confession out of Uncle Pete
(who incidentally, is up for most obvious name of a character in a children’s anti-gay book ever written – oooh,
I do hope Uncle Pete the Pedophile who touches Alfie’s penis is the winner!). It all gets summed up by saying that what
Alfie needed from the start was the “time, touch and talk” of his Dad. (Which sounds a little pedophilic to me
all on its own) If that doesn’t bring a tear to your one good eye, I don’t know what will. You can see some of
the “lowlights” (and I’m not talking in a salon sort of way) on queerty.com of the actual book, here’s
the link. http://www.queerty.com/news/ex-gay-activist-gets-illustrated-20070827/
Here’s the deal,
as many wrote into queerty.com, I am one of the people who have a great relationship with my father, always have, we love
one another and I can’t hang up the phone with him or leave their house without him telling me he loves me. And while
my Dad does yell (it’s just the natural tone of his voice) it never made me want to get into the same bed with my uncle.
Furthermore, were the parents in this book fighting so much that they never knew Uncle Pete was in the same bed with their
kid? Don’t you have to wonder if there’s more going on here than just a pedophile uncle but also some bad parenting?
And how the hell does it translate into some sort or weird validation in high school by the kids calling him a “faggot?”
As someone who’s face has an intimate knowledge of every locker in my high school from being slammed into them at least
once a day and being called “faggot” every day at least six times, I have to say that it didn’t really make
me want to be gay or think that the gay lifestyle was all that glamorous. So I have to say that Mr. Cohen is a bit off base
with this part of his ex-fairy tale too.
I get it that a lot of gay men don’t have great relationships with their fathers and/or they were molested
as a child but there are a lot that weren’t and it’s a bit irresponsible of this guy to be putting this book out
as if it’s some sort of cautionary tale or standard for being gay. For some of us who knew we were gay before we lip
synced to our first Barbra Streisand record, I have to say if I had read this book as a child it wouldn’t have made
me not gay or given me clarity. In fact it would have confused me. And while most books are open to some interpretation (Let
me hear you Bible readers hollah!) this one is not. And forget about those books like Heather Has Two Mommies, if you’re
looking for a sure fire gay training tool for children, you don’t have to look much further than Pat The Bunny. This
book teaches you how to tell if something is real or faux fur, how great a beard feels against your skin, to look at yourself
in a mirror, how swell Mommy’s ring looks on you, smelling flowers and playing peek a boo with a blanket (you know how
the gays like to play peek a boo during sex). Come on, when you think about it this way, wouldn’t Pat The Bunny make
you gayer than Heather Has Two Mommies or not gay as much as Alfie’s Home?
What gets me the most is that this guy is going
to make a fortune on this poorly illustrated book and even more disgusting is that it will actually find its way into children’s
hands. The good news is that kids are smarter than their parents and in most cases I’m thinking they’ll recognize
it for the crap that it is and move on being gay or not gay. The anti-gay children’s book – Don’t Get Me
Started!
Republican Senator Larry Craig isn't a homosexual, he just plays one in bathrooms!
Senator
Larry Craig Isn’t A Homosexual, He Just Plays One In Bathrooms – Don’t Get Me Started!
So according to the
reports, Senator Larry Craig (Republican, of course) from Idaho was apparently arrested in June for lewd behavior in the Minneapolis-St.
Paul airport bathroom, pled guilty and paid his $500. Now in a statement that it was all a mistake that he wasn’t looking
for sex from the police officer in the next stall, he claims he should never have pled guilty and that he isn’t gay.
Senator Larry Craig isn’t a homosexual, he just plays one in bathrooms – Don’t Get Me Started!
Immediately you could
“go there” about him being a Republican, the fact that he’s married with kids or that once again a supposed
non-gay somehow knew to tap his foot, rub it up against the police officer’s and then wave under the stall. (Supposedly
these are the signals that are used to solicit sex from stall to stall and apparently he knew them all.) Now all of these
signals are about as foreign to me as a baseball coach trying to tell me to steal second. I had no idea about the tapping,
the rubbing and the waving. All this just sounds like a gay Country bar where the boys two-step and wave to their friends
as they come in. So maybe you all know about these “signals” but I had no idea it was all so involved.
He claims at the time
of the arrest he was trying to tell the police that they had “misconstrued” his actions. Yeah, I’m sure
the cop with his big rubber soled shoes “misconstrued” the (no doubt) Gucci loafer with tassels reaching over
and rubbing up against his foot. Maybe that’s why I don’t know about these signals…my legs are way too
short, I don’t think they’d reach to do the rubbing. Now I’ve got rhythm so I could tap and the wave is
no problem, but I think I’d probably fall and hit my head on the porcelain base of the toilet while trying to reach
someone’s foot in the stall next to me.
What gets me is with the Internet why can’t these guys just order out for sex like everyone else I know? Maybe
you find it hot to get blown while the smell of some guy’s pastrami sandwich that didn’t sit too well with him
is taking a major dump next to you. (I know some people are into that, right?) Or maybe it’s just the whole anonymous
thing and what happens in airports stays in airports, I honestly don’t know. But what gets me is that this guy is a
Senator, do you mean no one advised him that by pleading guilty it means that you did it? Come on, we all used to watch Baretta,
right? “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time…whoa hoa.”
No surprise that this yahoo is known
for his support of gun owners and has what is deemed a “close” relationship with the National Rifle Association.
(Since he’s apparently looked down a couple of barrels in his day, if you know what I mean and I know that you do) He
also apparently had called allegations by a gay rights organization in 2006 that he engaged in homosexual behavior “completely
ridiculous.” I agree, that it’s completely ridiculous that there’s yet another public figure caught for
exposing his “figure” in a public bathroom. But I’ll leave it to experts like George Michael to decide.
I yield the floor (the bathroom floor that is) to my senior Senator from Idaho.
Well he’s up for re-election next year so
if I were him, I’d steal all the little soaps I can from the toilets in Congress while I’m there and leave the
tapping, rubbing and waving to the professionals. I’m not one of those people who think that everyone is gay so I don’t
know if he’s gay or just wanted someone to blow him. And you know what? I don’t care. But I say the more these
supposed “leaders” get exposed, the better (as long as I don’t have to see it). Senator Larry Craig isn’t
a homosexual, he just plays one in bathrooms – Don’t Get Me Started!
How To
Go From Writing Your Blog To Video Blogging (Without hurting yourself or those around you) – Don’t Get Me Started!
I started blogging a
few years ago off and on but when I became the official blogger for Project Runway (Season 3) last year on bravotv.com it
became apparent to me that I was going to have to throw caution to the wind and begin blogging on a regular basis. And as
I am who I am, that meant creating a website for the blog. (Something I knew nothing about) But I found a great do-it-yourself
web hosting site (www.web.com) and within two weekends of learning and spending fourteen hour days,
alas, the Some Like It Scott site was born (http://www.somelikeitscott.com)! I still love it when people ask me who designed my site for me
for it is me, myself and I (and lots of trial and error). So over the past year of posting to the blog at least five times
a week and keeping the other pages current (while holding down a really demanding full-time job that has me traveling all
over God’s creation) along with the rest of my life, I made this much harder than it probably needed to be. Most people
do a one page site, mine had 9 pages (got smart and archived a couple and added one so the site currently has 8 pages) and
so that meant that you needed to update those pages at least once a week and then you have the Jewish guilt that people come
to the site and aren’t seeing anything new so they’re not coming back again so you start just moving things around
on pages (out of sheer desperation) so that the page will look new and hopefully no one will find out or worse, hate you for
it. At any rate, I finally found my stride and was keeping everything semi-up-to-date when people started writing in asking
when I would start video blogging. Now you have to remember that when you’re writing no one sees your process so they
don’t know if the ideas just flow or are painful to get out and no one is going to start to stalk you because they have
no idea who you are or that you’re sitting writing in a ripped up t-shirt and sweat pants, having not showered in two
days with your hair looking like some sort of exotic greasy moss so if they saw you they definitely would have no interest
in stalking you. (Yet it does happen, a story for another day) How to go from writing your blog to video blogging (without
hurting yourself or those around you) – Don’t Get Me Started!
Once you decide to start video blogging the first thing you need is a camera.
I did some research (but probably not as much as I should have) and decided on a Logitech Quick Cam Ultra-Vision (Special
Edition). It has the microphone built in so there are less moving parts to deal with and that’s a good thing. It hangs
off your monitor or the hook can be manipulated to lay flat (thought I was breaking it the first time I did it). So I install
the software that came with it and plug in the camera. Voila the worst picture I’ve ever seen in my life. I looked like
a photo negative and then it would get so bright it looked as if I had just landed on Mars (the red planet). I was so frustrated
and although the software said it had looked for the latest update and none were available, I went to the Logitech site (after
three frustrating days and buying all sorts of cheap lights thinking it was the lighting and that I needed to be lit from
behind, in front or from somewhere in Europe thoughts of returning the thing and never buying another camera seemed as if
they would make a blissful reality) and found a later version of the software. Once installed the camera did everything the
reviews said that it would. Now the real decisions would need to be made.
First you have to decide with yourself whether or not you’re going
to take naked pictures of yourself. (Okay, this really wasn’t anything I considered but you do think about it as the
camera is right there and it just seems so easy. Easy if you’re not a Jewish boy obsessed with the bagel that your middle
section has become which renders it impossible for you to even look at yourself naked when you come out of a shower so you
may be completely gangrene from the neck down and never know and you’re certainly not going to be filming it). Let’s
just say this was never an option for me.
For me, I wanted my video blog to be different from the Don’t Get Me Started blog I write and yet have a point
of view and be very “me” for lack of a better term. So I started watching other people’s video blogs. To
be honest, I didn’t get through very many of them. Why? Because with the convenience of having cameras everywhere and
affordable, everyone is video blogging these days from the teen who talks about what she ate last night for dinner while her
mother is calling her in the background to people like Rosie who just turn the camera on and let her stream of consciousness
be caught by the camera. That’s all well and good if you’re Rosie, because you’re famous, anything you do
people find fascinating but not so much if you’ve never had your fifteen minutes of fame. So as quickly as I started
watching other Vblogs I stopped and thought about what I wanted to talk about and who I wanted to reach. One of the blogs
that I had written that had garnered a lot of attention (and got me a regular writing gig for the Sierra Gay Mens Newslettter)
was a blog I wrote about being a forty-something gay during Pride week and wondering where I fit in. The responses I got from
men who were as I call them, “average garden variety gays” was staggering and I thought to myself, “Yeah,
I have something that other people can relate to here. Not everyone can be gay thin and not all of us are walking around at
a Pride parade with our assless leather chaps and harness on with a rainbow flag tattooed to our left buttocks.” And
so the Forty-Something Gay video blog was born.
The next step is deciding the way you want to be filmed – long shot or headshot. This will make a difference
(in whether or not you wear pants) and also how much of what’s behind you will be seen. I draped fabric behind me, had
lights all over the place and then eventually decided to keep it simple and go for the head and shoulders shot with my vintage
signed litho from the Wizard of Oz behind me. Clothing is a trial and error process that you just have to do with as open
of a mind as you possibly can. Because of the camera and the way I was shooting (and the sixteen Oreos I’d eaten) nothing
was going to look great to me so you settle for what looks “good enough” and go on your way. After all, you can
change your shirt, getting rid of your six chins is a little harder without a lot of Scotch tape, makeup and the right lighting!
You then have to decide
on the content. Are you going to just turn the camera on and let it rip or do you have an idea what you want to say? A lot
of the VBlogs that are popular now like Ask A Gay Man (Read my blog on this guy here… Ask A Gay On Outzonetv.com Needs To Go Away ) have a lot of edits to make them look the way that they do. I decided
not to go that way for mine. First, it takes a lot of time to get the editing right and I’m one person doing way too
many things as it is and second, I feel like it loses some of its spontaneity if you can see they edited their blog entries.
I wrote down some bullet points (and then ignored most of them) trying to stay on topic but knowing I’d digress because
that’s just who I am. I read somewhere that the ideal time limit is three minutes but in my first couple I tipped the
timer at four and five minutes. Looking at the entries, I agree, three minutes is probably the optimum but without a timer
ticking down in front of me and even with as fast as I talk, this was just the length of my first couple entries and I decided
to be okay with it. I did decide to make actual “episodes” and name them for a focused topic I’d be discussing,
edit a piece into the start and end of each episode so that it would look more professional (and also someday I could sell
the box set like The Mary Tyler Moore Show or something – yeah, right but stranger things have happened, right?) and
I took a deep breath and just dove into the deep end of the pool.
I have a lot more to learn about this medium (like never showing my profile
again – EE Gads it’s awful) but on the whole I think they look pretty good and what’s even more important
is that my Mother thinks so – she even went as far as to say I looked handsome but what are Mother’s for if not
to lie to you?
As I do my weekly video post, I will let you know when I discover more video blogging secrets and also about why
I decided to post it on YouTube (to save space on my server and reach more people than those that just visit my site –
okay, well I guess I don’t have to write about this later now). And what I’m sure will be “only Scott”
experiences as I try to maneuver through this new frontier. I hope you’ll come along with me on the journey and hope
you enjoy the first episode of Forty-Something Gay! How to go from writing your blog to video blogging (without hurting yourself
or those around you) – Don’t Get Me Started!
TV's newest judge is gay but does he have to be 1980's comedy sketch gay?
Gay Justice
Gets Syndicated – Don’t Get Me Started!
As if we really need another reality courtroom show, on September 10, 2007
television is getting its newest Judge Judy in the form of a gay man from Miami, Judge David Young. Or perhaps he’s
the Judge Judy Garland? Apparently he’s a very well known and respected judge (his most famous case to date was when
he sent those two drunk America West pilots to jail in 2005). The marketing campaign says he doles out justice and occasionally
breaks into show tunes. Gays playing the game of televised life; in case you haven’t noticed, we’ve just lost
a turn again and moved six steps backward. Gay Justice gets syndicated – Don’t Get Me Started!
This show first came to my attention
(as most things do) by the commercial that came on when I was watching something else. It caught my attention only because
I was trying to convince myself I hadn’t heard what the voiceover had said. One of the lines of the voiceover was, “Justice
with a snap” and it showed him snapping like the gay characters from In Living Color (portrayed hysterically) by Damon
Wayans and David Alan Grier. On a comedy show in the 1980’s it’s funny but on a reality court show in 2007…I
Object! (Watch Men On Films Here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vScxRgkzRsQ)
Now look, I have nothing against this guy and yes, I guess it is something
that he can put in his bio that he has a partner of twelve years and still have a nationally syndicated court show but I know
for a fact that there are gays out there who don’t burst into show tunes, snap at things and call one another, “Giiiiirl!”
Unfortunately those gays never seem to make it on television because I guess they just aren’t gay “enough.”
Thank you television executives for once again, reducing us to the stereotype you think the world adores and we gays abhor.
This isn’t new for Hollywood, similar to the Jewish studio heads back in the Golden Age of Hollywood that were always
afraid that actors or scripts were “too Jewish” so somehow in their minds they thought that if they went with
the Jewish stereotype it would be okay because they would be laughing with the anti-Semitic public instead of the public laughing
at the studio or finding out that men like Louis B. Mayer was a big Jew. (Who knew? Everyone!) So you’ll notice that
usually when you see a Jewish character in old movies he’s got the big nose and is looking for a penny in the sewer
(while the large black maid rolls her eyes and bugs them out of her head when the flapjack she’s making flips and hits
the ground instead of the pan). But you would think that an industry that went from silent movies to Technicolor movie musicals
like The Wizard of Oz in a little under ten years would have evolved a little more by now, wouldn’t you?
Well, it hasn’t
as you can see from movies like I Now Pronounce You Chuck And Larry (though I didn’t see it and apparently no one else
did either because it made something like three dollars at the box office), William Sledd (the 23 year old Gap Manager who
is a YouTube sensation with his swishy, “Ask A Gay Man” video blogs now featured on Outzonetv.com) and now Judge
David Young who supposedly brings a “new perspective on justice.”
I don’t know about you guys but I’m tired of being Anne Frank,
being persecuted, forced to live life hidden from view and eventually being killed all the while saying, “In spite of
everything I still believe that people are really good at heart.” And I’m not too wild about
being Shylock the Jewish character from Shakespeare’s Merchant Of Venice either, “I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes?
Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions: fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons,
subject to the same diseases, heal’d by the same means, warm’d and cool’d by the same winter and summer
as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And
if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?” Maybe God knew what he was doing when he made me a Jewish gay man because at
times I certainly identify with one or both of the above characters/people.
I just wish that there was a place for us gays on television where we didn’t
have to swish to get our wish of getting our fifteen minutes of fame. I get it, swishy is funny and sometimes when I’m
writing this blog or “on” at a party I can be as swishy as my dirty martini and limp wrist will allow. But wouldn’t
it be nice to have a gay on television who is painted a little more three dimensional than his highlights? Maybe someday (and
I’m back to being Anne Frank) but for now I think I’ll skip the honorable Judge’s justice with a snap and
pull out my DVD of Gentlemen’s Agreement (The 1947 classic movie where Gregory Peck as a magazine story writer tells
everyone he’s Jewish to see how he’ll be treated differently than a gentile – a must see again and again
for everyone.) But for those that are interested, I don’t want anyone to think I’m not supporting my fellow gays
and doing them justice so here’s Judge David Young’s website http://www.judgedavidyoung.com/ . Gay Justice gets syndicated – Don’t Get Me Started!
My MikWright
Coaster Debut Is A Bust – Don’t Get Me Started!
So
by now you’ve all heard the big news that my Mother and I were immortalized this past spring by the darling duo at MikWright
by being turned into greeting cards. In a word, they are “fabulous” and great for any occasion so you should probably
always have about a hundred of each on hand so you’re covered for your friends’ birthdays, anniversaries or colonics.
(Click here to see them and get all the ordering info http://www.somelikeitscott.com/somelikefaves.html ) As if being a greeting card wasn’t enough, most recently,
our cards were turned into coasters! So now you can put your drink on my face (I’ve had worse on it). As my pals at
MikWright sent me the cards before they came out to the public at large, I haven’t been to a MikWright retailer to actually
see the cards in person but with the coasters, I wanted to do the whole, see myself on a rack thing (I know, a fantasy for
some of my enemies but this is a different type of rack and I’m sure you get the idea). So yesterday I went to one of
the local stores that carry MikWright products. My MikWright coaster debut is a bust – Don’t Get Me Started!
As you can imagine,
I was wild with anticipation. And as I parked the car, the thoughts started whizzing through my head faster than celebrities
through rehab. Did my hair look as good as my Mother’s wig that I’m wearing on the card? Would I be recognized?
(Okay, you see the card and know that I would never be recognized and yet the thought still went through my head) Would they
ask me to do an impromptu signing of the cards and coasters? Where was a Sharpie when I needed it? Was I dressed appropriately?
Would I ever be able to go into another store without bodyguards or sunglasses larger than my head after this Some Like It
Scott sighting? My head filled with these thoughts and with my body almost hit by a passing car, I entered the store.
The store was one of
your typical “gift” stores that have more chazerei than you could shake a stick at with every inch of everything
being covered by something that you’ll probably never need in your lifetime yet someone must be buying this crap because
they’re still in business. You know the type of items, the cheese spreaders that come in a package of six with a painted
resin olive at the end of them. Who needs this shit will someone please tell me?
I enter the store and quickly scan to see if the
customers are the type that are going to tear me to pieces when they realize that such a big card/coaster star is in their
midst. Just as quickly I realize that there are no customers in the store. It is me and one teenage salesgirl behind the counter.
The only sound in the thick overly potpourri’d environment is the “tappaccatta, tappaccatta” of the salesgirl’s
price gun.
Like a drug sniffing
dog or psychic that finds missing children with amazing skills I never knew I possessed, almost immediately I found myself
in front of the rack of MikWright cards. Posing nonchalantly by the rack, I turned to the salesgirl and spoke…
Me: Do you sell the
MikWright coasters too?
Teen Steam Girl: (She looked a little like Alyssa Milano from Who’s The Boss when she had that exercise video
out called, “Teen Steam” – I know, maybe all of three people just got this reference, maybe) Huh?
Me: These are MikWright
cards. (I hold one up with my left hand and do a sweeping, Price Is Right Janice, “All This Can Be Yours” arm
with my right) Do you carry their other products?
Teen Steam Girl: I have to ask someone else (she exits to the back room)
(I spin the rack of cards like my eighth grade dance
partner when we were dancing to “Boogie Oogie Oogie” by Taste Of Honey back in the day, feverishly looking for
my card or my Mother’s. I find my Mother’s but not mine.)
Teen Steam Girl: (Returning) We don’t carry them.
Me: (Holding up my Mother’s card)
May I ask you something?
Teen Steam Girl: (Unintelligible grunt)
Me: (Undaunted with exuberance normally associated with someone acting in children’s theatre) Have you sold
a lot of these cards? Because this is my Mother. We’re on MikWright cards and coasters!
Teen Steam Girl: (No change in expression)
I don’t know. It’s my first day.
(Replacing the card on the rack, I walk to the door crestfallen and as the tinkle of the bell on the door is heard
I walk into the 103 degree parking lot back to the Mini. FADE TO BLACK)
No paparazzi, no crowds like Lindsay Lohan or that God awful Star Jones
gets with the gay husband – nothing. But be assured the next time I’m in LA with my LA gays or in Palm Springs
I’ll be going to one of those stores in one of the big gayborhoods and I’ll be getting my recognition, dammit.
I don’t care if I have to stage and rehearse it beforehand with paid actors it’s going to happen alright. And
if I didn’t have this blog and/or knew how to keep my mouth shut, I could have possibly convinced the friends I took
with me to believe it was the first time I had seen the cards and coasters with the friends I took with me. Oh who am I kidding,
this is just another chapter in the life of “The Greatest Never Was Been There’s Ever Been.” My MikWright
coaster debut is a bust – Don’t Get Me Started!
The Gay, Gay, Gayer Than Gay Power Gay Poolside Party!
The Gay,
Gay, Gayer Than Gay Power Gay Poolside Party – Don’t Get Me Started!
I have to begin by saying that I have been
to perhaps all of about three pool parties in my lifetime and this was the first one in my forties. I think the main reason
(besides never being invited to any) is that for me the getting ready process to go to a pool party (let alone one swimming
with gays) is just way too much pressure. I don’t know if I should fake tan or go as I am. I don’t know if I should
wear my bathing suit (ye gads, that’s right, I only own one which I bought under protest when I was in Palm Springs
three years ago at the insistence of my pal – read the story of the Gay, Gay, Gayer Than Gay Weekend here… http://www.somelikeitscott.com/somelikegay.html ) or bring the bathing suit and then it’s all about the bag
you bring to carry it to and fro. The list of things to worry about is endless and makes me so insane that by the time I get
there I’m all ready done. But as this was to be a poolside party it made the decision easier, “the”
bathing suit would not make an appearance, it would be shorts. Still there was much more to worry about because after all,
this was going to be the gay, gay, gayer than gay power poolside party – Don’t Get Me Started!
The party’s occasion was a thirty
year anniversary party for two guys and was being thrown by a lovely power lesbian couple. So right from the get go you know
that the food will be great and that when people speak you won’t be sure if it was one of the pool floats that sprung
a leak or the partygoers inserting an “s” into every word they sssay. (You get the idea) Now what makes this event
even more interesting is that the way that I know the lesbian couple is through my mother, who sold them their home so here
I was at the gay, gay, gayer than gay poolside party with my parents. (How many people can say that, huh?) Here we stood,
my mother rhinestoned to the nines, my father in his dress pants and Tom Jones styled Italian leather boots and me in my shorts
outfit looking like a Garanimal threw up on me. We looked like refugees from a PFLAG meeting. And you should have seen everyone’s
faces when I would start talking to them and then say, “Oh, and these are my parents.” Priceless – just
like the Mastercard ads – “some things money can’t buy…”
There was “staff” which included
a male bartender complete with perfect highlights that was making everything (and when I say “making” I’m
thinking he went home with more than tips) but specializing in Mojitos. (I admit that I had him tell me the flavored ones
before deciding to go for a regular one because I wanted to hear the extra “S’s” in raspberry) and a famous
lesbian caterer from New York who was all business but threw my mother off her mark. My mother asking one of the lesbians
throwing the party, “Now the caterer, she’s so pretty and nice where is her husband?” Lesbian: “Well,
her “partner” is right over there.” My mother: “Oh <knowing nod> well, she’s lovely, isn’t
she?” At one point there was a guy with a baby and as my mother whisked over and remarked how pretty the baby was and
asked how old she was, the proud father gave the response, “Around three months old.” As we walked away my mother
got closer to me and talking out of the side of her mouth she stage whispered to me, “No wedding ring…do you
think there’s a “partner” somewhere?” Egging her on I said, “What do you think? He said the
baby is “around” three months old that means he doesn’t KNOW when the baby was actually born. Like when
we took in the cats that were strays and had no idea how old they were until the Vet guessed they were six months old from
their teeth. A baby doesn’t have any teeth. Can you say surrogacy or black market adoption?” She gave me a knowing
nod and then we moved toward the buffet.
The good news is that this was not a twinkie party. These guys had been together for thirty years so the partygoers
were mostly friends for years and the guests were for the most part age appropriate. Still it wouldn’t be a gay party
without me ending up hanging with the heterosexuals instead of the homosexuals. There was the woman I started talking with
who also owned cats so we had some inane conversation about cats while her husband stood there getting increasingly uncomfortable
as the pool area filled with gays, not knowing if he should cover his crotch or ass as to not “tempt” the gays.
(I could have saved him the anxiety as no gay would have wanted him) Then there was the couple from New York, the woman worked
with a member of the celebrated couple and her boyfriend was this typical meatball who talked about how he couldn’t
find a job here because he was fired as a cook in New York but as the conversation went on he suddenly was telling the story
about how he had been cast as a lead in an independent film that had lost its funding with a storyline that was so convoluted
that I can’t even repeat it because who would remember or care.
When I finally found a gay to talk to and was having a normal conversation,
his boyfriend came over, smiled and nodded through a couple of minutes of conversation and then whisked him away – neither
one to be seen again. I guess the boyfriend may have thought I was trying to make a move on his man…I can assure you
that I was not and continually brought up my guy but you know the gays, we’re a suspicious lot on the whole and tend
to spray our territory like cats. The only other person I really had a conversation with during my three hours at the party
was one half of another long term gay couple who you’d have no trouble picturing wearing caftans and lots of rings.
You know the type, they make everything they tell you seem confidential and touch your wrist a lot as they “let you
in” on what they’re telling you.
All in all, I would have to say that my parents were the most interesting and fun people I talked to all night. So
as I said my goodbyes and went on my way, all I could think was that although a lovely party maybe I just wasn’t meant
to be a power gay of Las Vegas. And somehow that was just fine with me. The gay, gay, gayer than gay power poolside party
– Don’t Get Me Started!
Are there worse things I could do besides wear flip flops?
Are Flip
Flops The Fashion Faux Pas Of The Century? – Don’t Get Me Started!
As I went for the door to leave my house on
Sunday to go to a Power Gay Poolside Party my guy stopped me and said, “You’re not wearing those flip flops are
you?” Sounding like a high school girl walking out of the house to go to a party wearing a cropped top showing too much
of her bountiful abdomen I said, “Come on, everyone is wearing them.” To which my guy replied, “How many
episodes have we watched of What Not To Wear? And you’re still going to wear the shoes to a party that you wear to take
out the garbage?” And so with my defiant spirit a blazing I left wearing my red Old Navy flip flops thinking I was just
fine and would be as cool as all the other kids at the party. But at the same time I began to question myself…what
if I was wrong? Are flip flops the fashion faux pas of the century? – Don’t Get Me Started!
As I arrived at the party I realized
in an instant it must be Saint Nick (no, not really, just seemed like the logical next line). One by one the gays came in,
two by two and as I looked from foot to foot I saw one Kenneth Cole sandal after the other. I don’t care if they were
the big leather band slip-on kind that sort of gave the appearance of your Dad’s old slippers or if they were what I
call the “I am Spartacus” sandal that are way too chunky and strappy for their own good but the cheese stood alone
(in this case me) with my cheapo flip flops on. My guy was right and I felt kind of bad and out of step as it were…that
is until I saw the guy with the bright green crocs on that matched nothing else he had on. (Read my blog about Crocs here…
http://www.somelikeitscott.com/2006.09.01_arch.html#1157242784198 ) At least my flip flops were adding a dash of color to my
outfit, right?
The thing is that I am not a short or sandal wearer on the whole so truth be told, I really didn’t have the
appropriate attire for this event to from the get go. And it just didn’t seem to make sense to me to go out and sportswear
myself up like a 1970’s J.C. Penney catalog for one party. I usually only wear my flip flops to take out the garbage
so why did I think that I was going to suddenly turn twenty and into an Abercrombie model with my flip flops, khaki shorts
and shirt? For the most part I think that flip flops are not the most comfortable and certainly not the most fashionable choice
one can make but I didn’t have sandals so it was either the flops or tennis shoes with socks pushed down reminiscent
of the 1980’s and leg warmers so I had gone ahead and made the flip flop choice.
I remember this guy I used to work with
and his flip flops or what he called his “shower shoes.” He was a very large man who the minute he opened his
mouth you knew you were off to the gay races. Well, one time he was across the country and had checked into a hotel where
I was going to be checking in a couple of days and he called me to give me a status update about the rooms and hotel itself.
Almost before I could get a “hello” out he squealed, “Girl, we gots to move hotels. I’m telling you
honey, this carpet is so greasy I wouldn’t even take my shower shoes off to walk around this room. Mama can’t
stay here and trust me when I say you’ll thank me for not letting you check in here either!”
Now for you savvy Some
Like It Scott readers it’s about this time in reading the blog that you’re wondering where all my observations
are about the party, the party goers and the food. More on that tomorrow but today it’s about me and my bad choice with
the flip flops and whether or not you think like Stockard Channing in Grease, “there are worse things I could do”.
Are flip flops the fashion faux pas of the century? – Don’t Get Me Started!
The Beyonce Lemonade Diet And The 12 Hours I Was On It!
My 12 Hours
On The Beyonce Lemonade Diet – Don’t Get Me Started!
Let me start by saying that I’m not really fat per se but at the same
time, I’m carrying around at least fifteen pounds I could afford to lose and when I recently tried to convince my doctor
that perhaps it was muscle mass (from working out at the gym) that was making me tip the height to body weight chart on its
ear, he felt my bicep and dryly said, “I don’t think so.” And while I’m not a fatty boomballatty,
I’m not “gay thin” either. I was in LA last week hanging with what I lovingly call “My LA Gays”
and let me say that I look like the Star Jones “before” ad and they look like the “after” (if you
know what I mean) although none of them have had “medical intervention” (read that blog here…Star Jones Please Please Go Away) I had heard that when Beyonce was getting ready to do Dreamgirls
she had decided that she needed to lose weight so that she could look more like gay thin icon, Diana Ross (which anyone who
knows the musical, knows that while there are similarities, it is NOT the story of the Supremes although Baby Love, it’s
a fabulous musical) so she went on this lemon water with maple syrup and cayenne pepper fast and lost twenty pounds. I thought,
perfect right? I read about it and found out that it’s really called “The Master Cleanse” and after getting
the supplies, I was all ready to start. So this past Friday morning bright and early I made my lemon water and drank it all
day, by 7pm that night I would have eaten the sofa. Thus my story, my 12 hours on the Beyonce Lemonade Diet – Don’t
Get Me Started!
The real idea behind the supposed cleanse is to rid your body of toxins, give your colon a cleaning out (like your
closet in spring) and give you a clean slate as it were to begin to re-toxify yourself all over again with the environment
around you when you’re done. On my recent family vacation my sister-in-law and I had discussed it and we were ready
to go on this thing come hell or hot water spewing out our ass (remember that it’s a cleanse with cayenne pepper –
come on what do you think is going to happen?) to be thinner then thin on our next meeting. My massage therapist had gone
on it and he had lost nine pounds in six days and said he felt more energized than he ever had in his life during and after
the cleanse. I had also read in US Magazine (a publication as truthful as the bible, if you know what I mean and I think that
you do) that one of the Coreys (can’t remember if it was Haim or Feldman) had also gone on it and lost over 150 pounds
to get in shape for their new reality show. (He could have saved himself, no one is watching that thing and for good reason)
So with all the success
stories that were better than Anna Nicole on TrimSpa, I was ready for the adventure to begin on Friday. I chose that day because
I was working from home and while I didn’t expect major action on the first day, I was taking the precautionary methods
that made sense in this situation. Well, it’s a damn good thing that I did because approximately one hour after my first
glass of the Jekyll and Hyde fluid (and a cup of “Smooth Move” tea that you’re supposed to drink with it)
I was off to the races (or moving as quickly as I could to the bathroom). I’ll spare you the details of what followed
next but let me say that it was not pretty and you could hear my yelping for miles like a gay caught in a bear trap in the
woods. (And let me say that days after that my stomach and my bowel movements are still not back to normal.)
I drank and shit, drank
and shit all day on Friday and stayed away from the kitchen (especially the refrigerator where my guy’s famous homemade
barbeque ribs and greens were sitting in there in all their deliciousness). I kept talking myself into another glass of the
yellow liquid, trying to convince myself that it was the most delicious thing ever, much better than the Popeye’s chicken
they showed on the commercials on television. Much better than the home cooked deliciousness that was in my own frige. To
be honest, much like they say, it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity…it wasn’t the lemonade it was
the fact that my ass was more sore than a boy crack whore on Saturday night in an alley going for ten cents a dance (if you
know what I mean).
To say my stomach was making odd noises is an understatement. Like a scene from Aliens or an old car going over cobblestone
streets my stomach would lurch and then scream as if it wanted out of my body. All the while, my guy is saying, “I want
to be supportive so let me know if it bothers you if I eat in front of you.” God love him, he knew I was crazy and doomed
for failure but he did try to show his support. Unfortunately I only heard part of his sentence as I was running back to the
bathroom at the time.
Finally at 7pm having drunk all the lemonade that I was supposed to for the day, my stomach screaming like a chick
in a horror flick being chased by a killer in a ski mask, and my ass so sore that I thought I’d spend the rest of my
life sitting sidesaddle, I had to end my cleanse, my fast, my stupidity. I went right for the ribs and greens and boy were
they delicious.
Look, I know that I need to eat less and work out more (or eat seventeen small meals a day and jump on a mini-trampoline
while I’m on conference calls all day in my office or something) but I just haven’t been able to do it. My heart
(or mouth in this case) just doesn’t want to do what my head knows it should. However, now that I’ve seen yet
another quick fix the celebrity world tried to sell us is not in fact any sort of fix at all (disclaimer – for me) I’ll
resign myself to trying to get to the gym more and eating smaller portions to lose the fifteen pounds.
Let’s face it, if I’m really
honest with myself, it’s not like Bill Condon (director of Dreamgirls) is waiting for me to lose the weight to have
me star in his next film, or VH1 is waiting for me to lose the weight to go on some bizarre reality show that no one will
watch anyway because I’m still the “Greatest Never Was Been There Ever Was” so as long as my guy loves me
and my cats enjoy “kneading” on my extra stomach fat that’s the way it’s going to have to be until
I can motivate myself to stay away from the Oreos and get on the elliptical again and again and again.
There are no quick fixes for us normal
folk, it’s all a lot of hard fucking work and the sooner I realize that, the better. Sure if I had Oprah’s chef
cooking for me or Michael Thurmond (from Extreme Makeover – love him) working me out or even one of Beyonce’s
entourage wiping my sensitive ass during the process I guess I could stick to a plan but I’m sure that Oprah would tell
me that it’s really my inside that needs the fixing (mentally) before I can lose the weight and has nothing to do with
all the assistants in the world fawning over me and telling me I look fabulous when I drop six ounces. So hey, I tried to
be a celebrity but during that twelve hours I felt less like a celebrity and more like Morale from A Chorus Line when she
sings, “I felt nothing, I’m feeling nothing and he said “nothing” could get a girl transferred. They
all felt something but I felt nothing except the feeling that this bullshit was absurd.” My 12 hours on the Beyonce
Lemonade Diet – Don’t Get Me Started!
That whole, "Do You Want To Donate A Dollar?" at the checkout is on my nerves.
Donating
A Dollar (Or More) At The Register! – Don’t Get Me Started!
I get it, I get it…it’s an easy way
to donate to charitable causes by having a cashier ask you if you want to donate a dollar to MDA or some other charity gets
on my nerves and let me tell you why. It’s checkout emotional blackmail. Donating a dollar (or more) at the register!
– Don’t Get Me Started!
As I have long stated, I am not a “Geffen Gay.” You know, one of those supposed gays with a large disposable
income, two retrievers and a Jeep Cherokee (Hey, I’m just going by what they show in the ads, right?). And although
I’ll probably never buy a $25,000 table at an AIDS benefit, I do contribute to HRC (Human Rights Campaign), GMHC (Gay
Men Health Crisis), Habitat For Humanity and other charities what I can afford when I can. Long has it driven me to distraction
that in the same envelope you receive the “thank you” for your donation that you also receive another envelope
with the charity having their hand out, looking for more of your money. You’d think they’d have the good taste
to at least let you revel in your “I did a good deed” euphoria for ten minutes or maybe a week before they slam
you with the reality that everyone is being discriminated against or dying because you couldn’t come up with another
$125 after the $75 you just gave! I get it, they are charitable causes that need money to operate and help people and I appreciate
it but come on, am I the only person that is donating? Sometimes it feels that way when you see the letter personally addressed
to you from Elizabeth Taylor telling you “how far we’ve come but how far we have to go, Scott.” And that’s
exactly why they do it. I mean, who can say no to the queen of the Nile? Maggie The Cat? Or National Velvet for Chrissakes?
You’re doomed and so is your checkbook. The point is I usually always end up giving a little bit more and then when
the next “thank you we need more of your money” letter comes, I just throw it away without opening it or looking
for the free return address labels. (Read that blog here… Using Return Address Labels That Charities Send)
But with Jerry Lewis dusting off his tux, prepare yourself to see firemen
with their boots off in the middle of the street looking for money (you know, kind of like that guy you thought you were dating
in 1987 but he turned out just to be a go go boy/prostitute who dressed like a fireman and was always taking his boots off
and leaving them in all the most inconvenient places in your apartment until you finally tripped over them and chipped a tooth
– just a guess). With Labor Day around the corner the supermarkets are asking you that dreaded question as you pay for
your groceries, “Would you like to donate a dollar to MDA?” First I have to ask, “Is it just me? I thought
that they found a cure for this like ten years ago or something?” I’m not trying to be funny or mean, I really
thought that Jerry had told us that at one point. Well, whatever, they apparently still need our money much more than we need
to hear Jerry sing at this point. And the point is that if you don’t donate you look like a complete loser in front
of the other people in line as the cashier gives you every dirty look she can for $1.49. So your choice is to donate and fill
out the piece of paper to let everyone know you donated or don’t and look like an asshole. Since the inception of this
new way to raise money I’ve begun to embrace my inner asshole. (And no, that’s not some new exercise to make your
ass better for gay sex!)
It’s not just MDA, they get you in the pet store too, asking you to donate a dollar to the homeless pets. Well,
I took in two stray cats who now live in the lap of luxury complete with an electronic litter box and an electric drinking
fountain so no, I don’t feel the need to donate to the homeless pets, I’ve already given my bed, allowed most
of my furniture to be covered in cat hair (that I’m constantly using the adhesive rollers on to keep the hair situation
at bay), my money and most of all, affection that I had no idea would make me a complete blithering idiot when they do even
the slightest thing like jump in my lap and purr. We also leave food out for another stray that won’t let us get near
him but he’s desperate for food so I’m covered when it comes to the pet thing but what to do when it’s a
human charity?
I can’t very well
walk around whipping out my tax deductible receipts for all the “human” donations that I’ve made and I can’t
just ignore a fireman or Suzy as she checks me out at the market so for once in my life I have found that I could do what
no one thought possible from me. Use an economy of words, be polite and yet firm at the same time. While making eye contact
I say, “No thank you.” No more and no less and if Suzy or anyone else thinks I’m a bastard or asshole, it’s
on them because I was polite and to the point. I’ve decided to make this one less thing I worry about, feel guilty about
or try to overcompensate for by giving all my thoughts on the subject when all they really want is a dollar out of me. And
sometimes when I’m feeling major pressure from a nasty checkout woman, after I say no I ask her to add a candy bar to
my order! And I feel better. Donating a dollar (or more) at the register! – Don’t Get Me Started!
Gays In
The Workplace (The New Ant Farm For Straights) – Don’t Get Me Started!
There’s a phenomenon that happens
in corporate America when you have a company that is supposedly non-discriminatory against your sexual preference. In my experience,
the straight people in the office are either fine with it and it never comes up or they are so fascinated by you that you
become some sort of strange science experiment. Gays in the workplace (the new ant farm for straights) – Don’t
Get Me Started!
Remember when you were little and you would get those green plastic ant farms? You’d fill it with the sand
and then you would send away for the ants and in a few weeks you could watch the ants go up, down and around the other plastic
hurdles in the flat world they were living in being constantly on display like say, Lindsay Lohan. For some of us, it was
only interesting for a couple days or a week but for some they still have them today (on the shelf next to their Sea Monkeys).
Well, honestly, the corporate culture seems to be one of those kids that just can’t get enough of the ants going up,
down and around hurdles.
I work for a company that has 1400 employees across the US and yet it never fails, when another gay is hired anywhere,
I invariably get the call from someone. “We just hired Steven for the Florida location. I think you’re going to
“like” him…I mean, he IS one of you. On your team I mean. And he’s good looking.” Where in
the hell does anyone think that A) This is acceptable and B) That I give a shit? What is it affirmative action for gays? Am
I supposed to be thankful another one of “us” got in? Am I supposed to race home and look through my gay membership
lists to see if this guy is on it? (No, such a list does not exist to the best of my knowledge) The point is that I just don’t
get it and what is so strange is that the straight people think they’re being so subtle and clever as they wink, nod,
use their fingers like quotation marks and get to say things like, “he’s on your team.” Offensive, sure
but the fact that they think they’re being “with it” is the harder thing to stomach.
A prime example is the blog entry from
yesterday about the new IT gay hitting on me at work. When one of the straight guys found out about it he said (all wide eyed
and interested like he was watching open heart surgery on the Discovery channel), “Yeah, I was wondering when I introduced
you two if you were getting any kind of a vibe or anything.” I just rolled my eyes and said, “Look I have no gaydar
and there’s no one here attractive enough or interesting enough for me to want to fuck so no, it didn’t even register
with me that he might be gay.” The guy just stared at me a bit broken hearted looking and walked away from my desk just
shaking his head. I’m sure he was thinking, “Gee, they don’t have the gaydar? Hmmm, I thought that was like
new cars and GPS systems, just came standard.”
And what really sends the point home is when your straight co-workers really treat you like you’ve entered
the ant farm. You’re in a meeting or something and they watch you like a Billie Jean King tennis match, heads going
back and forth and back and forth watching the gays in the room, examining how they react to one another when the other says
something and whether or not the gays are lingering after the meeting to talk? It must be about dildos, throw pillows or Bette
Midler they think as they go back to their offices and call one another on the phone. Here’s a typical conversation
between two straight women after a meeting with the gays…
Gossip 1: Did you see Gary and Rodolfo at the meeting?
Gossip 2: See them? I couldn’t
look at anything else!
Gossip 1: When Gary suggested we do the survey to find out about the demographics and Rodolfo bent over showing his
ass, it was appalling!
Gossip 2: Well, I don’t care what they do in the privacy of their own home, you know it makes no difference
to me, I’m open-minded but do they have to bring it into the workplace?
Gossip 1: Exactly. Don’t they have special bars and clubs for that?
And I thought Gary had a “husband” <chuckle, chuckle, snort>.
Gossip 2: Well, he does but you know those gays. I’m surprised they
have time to do anything but workout and have sex with unsuspecting passerbys.
Gossip 1: Oh you are so right. But for Rodolfo to disappear under the conference
table, shoving his ass in the air as Gary was presenting when he knows Gary is gay and gets distracted the minute a man’s
ass is anywhere in view…
Gossip 2: Okay, I have to admit it. I had dropped my pencil and Rodolfo had just gone to retrieve it for me when
Gary started to speak. That’s why he was under the conference table and his ass was in the air.
Gossip 1: You mean he wasn’t
“presenting his ass” to Gary afterall? Well, I definitely saw “something” when Gary handed out the
copies of his presentation. I could swear that their hands brushed one another a little too long, if you know what I mean.
Gossip
2: Really? Oh those gays.
Gossip 1: Hey, I’ve got to go Brian is calling on line two.
Gossip 2: Has he told his wife yet that the two of you are sleeping together?
Gossip
1: Not yet but I know it’s only a matter of time. He really doesn’t love her and he left a post-it on my monitor
today that had a smile and heart drawn on it.
Gossip 2: Well, just to be on the safe side save everything he sends to you in case you need to blackmail him later.
Gossip
1: Got it. See you at the meeting at 2:30pm today. And get ready for more of the Gary and Rodolfo drooling all over one another
show!
Gossip
2: Ugh. Why we have to put up with this, I just don’t know. If it was the other way around the gays would be protesting,
creating a petition or parade or something!
Are there gays that “get together”
in the workplace? Sure. Are there heterosexuals that “get together” in the workplace? Sure. But for some reason,
we gays seem to be much more fascinating to watch and talk about. But for those of you who are straight reading this please
know that if you put us gays in the same room together, sparks nor snaps are guaranteed to fly. If the gays are like me, they
pride themselves on their professionalism and are normal people so unfortunately straightees, you’re not even going
to get a “Diva” or “Giiiiiiiiirl” out of me when I’m at work or not at work. You’ll just
have to be content to see me as the worker ant in the corner of the farm (the fabulously decorated part of the farm with a
velvet rope and a bouncer ant to make sure you’re on the list!) who isn’t busy seeking out the other gay ants
for sex or swishing. Gays in the workplace (the new ant farm for straights) – Don’t Get Me Started!
When the new gay at the office hits on you...RUN!!!
The New
IT Guy At Work Hit On Me – Don’t Get Me Started!
For those of you who don’t know, IT stands for Information Technology.
These are basically the technical janitors of any company. They make all the systems go, including your laptops, blackberries,
etc. and are much like auto mechanics. You know, they fix one thing and then three things don’t work on your computer
so they tell you to “re-boot” and everything will be fine when in actuality they have corrupted your code, are
talking in code you don’t understand and you suddenly have nothing left on your computer at all except an hourglass
that continually spins while in your head you hear the Wicked Witch of the West saying, “Auntie Em, Auntie Em”
as she appears in the big crystal ball. Now I want you to know that I say all of this with love, as my brother is the VP of
IT for a major pet supply retailer (you figure it out) but let’s face it, the reason these IT guys are the janitors
is because much like when I was teaching in the public school system (can you even imagine?) the janitors (or in this case,
the IT guys) are the ones to suck up to because they know where everything is and how to get you whatever you need…if
they like you. So I have always been overly friendly with the IT staff in my Home Office (located in Los Angeles). I come
here about once a month and so during my visits I have to compensate for the other twenty-seven or so days when I’m
not here. So it was in this friendliness-for-a-reason vein that today when I thought I was being delightful the new IT guy
thought I was being “friendly” ugh. The new IT guy at work hit on me – Don’t Get Me Started!
I met him for the first
time two days ago when I arrived at the Home Office and it was just the usual, “Nice to meet you, oh, you’ll be
responsible for that? Well, we must talk as I do a lot of stuff that interfaces (one of the three words I know from being
a bi-techual) with that system.” And because I’m really still kind of naïve (what some would call stupid)
I never really thought about him being gay or not gay. Afterall, when you’ve been in a relationship with someone as
long as I have, you lose your flirt sensor so I just thought, “Oh someone else to suck up (not on) to in order to get
what I wanted gadget-wise.”
So today when he stopped by my office to ask how long I was going to be in town, I was still being the coquette with
visions of new software (not hard) in my head. I was being flippant about what bad communicators the executives were in a
corporate bonding move and as we would probably be working on some projects together I was apologizing in advance for being
an over-communicator to make up for it. He said he was the same way and so I was just thinking that we were sort of doing
that whole work thing you do to make mock-friends who will get you what you need when you need it at the last minute because
you’ve created a work-rapport. (Not a real rapport mind you, like with your mate or with that woman in your life who
is your best friend and you dress but a work pal who when you’re about to miss a deadline will help you out in a pinch.)
And that’s when it happened. As we were doing the typical work talk, he leaned forward and said, “Well, how long
are you in town?” When responded that I was only in town until tomorrow night he said, “You should drop by so
we can chat some more before you leave.” And just as my Spidey senses were tingling I looked at his neck and there it
was…a leather cord necklace with beads on it that made “the rainbow.” AHHHHHH!
Now I have never had a rainbow anything
(except suspenders in the 1970’s when I thought I was being Robin Williams) so to me the whole rainbow thing should
be left to Dorothy to dream over and not as some sort of farchacta symbol for gays. That said; I know that it is in fact a
huge thing for some gays and they love to wear it and put it on their cars with bumper stickers that say, “Hate is not
a family value!” (Go lesbians) I remember that a gal pal of mine bought me a t-shirt from Provincetown once that had
a triangle design incorporated on it. I went into a store and the very swishy sales clerk giving me the “hubba hubba”
eye roll said as he was ringing my purchases up, “I love your triangle.” I was so grossed out I never wore the
thing again. Not to mention the fact that the triangle is five minutes away from being the pink triangle they put on gays
during the Nazi reign so between that and the yellow stars they put on Jews, if I were to go along with this whole rainbow,
triangle and stars thing, I look like I had every fucking Lucky Charms marshmallow on my coat!
So as the new IT guy walked away it
suddenly dawned on me that he had been hitting on me. I felt dirty, as if I need to be scrubbed down like Meryl Streep in
Silkwood. When you’ve been with the same man for as many years as I’ve been you lose your flirting skills let
alone the skills to know someone is flirting with you. Like I said to a pal at work after this happened, “They’d
have to have their dick up my ass before I would get that they were flirting with me.” I’d be like, “Oh,
you like me like me? I thought I was just being charming and getting a new laptop not a lap to sit on.”
Now I’m sure this
guy is very nice and please know that I don’t think I’m someone so attractive that everyone hits on me or that
I’m Lance Bass who hooks boyfriends because they want to be caught by the paparazzi. And never mind that this nice guy
looked like Hermey the elf from the Island of Misfit toys with glasses. The point was that if he thought he was making a love
connection, he needed to know that it was midnight at the oasis and he needed to put his camel to bed because he wasn’t
going to bed with this guy. Chalk it up to low self esteem or being really happy with the guy I’ve been with monogamously
for nineteen years (at the end of this month) but I am being completely honest when I say I don’t understand who would
really want to “be” with me, whether it be one night only or as a life partner (other than the man I’ve
been with for a million years). So I’ll need to re-group before I see him tomorrow and when I do, I’ll be as nice
as can be (because honestly, regardless of how I write, being nice is all I know how to be out of being taught a little thing
called, “manner” and my desperation to be popular) but as we gays know, being nice and being horizontal are two
different things. But as Scarlett said, “I can’t think about this today, if I do I’ll go crazy, I’ll
think about it tomorrow. Afterall, tomorrow is another day.” The new IT guy at work hit on me – Don’t Get
Me Started!
Thinking of doing a do-it-yourself Bar Mitzvah?? What are you crazy?!?
BM Also
Means Bar Mitzvah. The Do-It-Yourself Bar Mitzvah, Oy Vey – Don’t Get Me Started!
For those fans of the Some Like It
Scott site, you have no doubt already read the story of “My Best Friend’s Weddings” if not, go
here and read this first… (http://www.somelikeitscott.com/somelikegay.html ). My dearest pal and I have been through sex, drugs (just a little
dabbling back in the day), disco (we still do a mean “AB” turn) and death. When it came time for her first son
to be Bar Mitzvah, the choice was easy, that it would be done at the synagogue in La Jolla, California where she and her recently
departed husband had literally “ruled the shewl” but as time passed it was clear that for her youngest son, she
would just do the whole thing herself in Arizona (where they are living now). In essence, as she was the only Jew in her mishpocha
(family) having been converted and Bat Mitzvah, this was going to be a much more casual affair than the first…or so
we thought. BM also means Bar Mitzvah – The do-it-yourself Bar Mitzvah, oh vey – Don’t Get Me Started!
There was trouble from
the start when I decided in a last minute packing frenzy to just throw caution to the wind and throw my toiletries in a gallon
sized baggie, when I knew damn well the Airline Gestapo were going to surely notice that I had the wrong sized bag and would
no doubt throw some product away before I was allowed to even board the plane to start this adventure. Now I know the rules,
I wrote about them last Thanksgiving for Chrissakes (Read that blog here but remember that now you can actually take 3.4oz
sizes of everything you can fit in a quart sized bag http://www.somelikeitscott.com/2006.11.01_arch.html#1164032759253 ) so when they screamed “Bag Check” I just had a Homer
Simpson kind of “doi” moment. I thought my winning smile might get me through…such was not the case. So
here comes Candy, the four hundred pound TSA (Travel Security Authority) gal with her shirt tucked in (when it shouldn’t
be) and a belt buckle that no doubt left a mark every day on her stomach overhang when she got home and wiggled out of her
sausage casing that was her uniform. As she held the bag with her plastic gloved fingers as if there could be radiation in
it, she informed me that I had the wrong sized bag and that there would be a casualty, the Clinique shaving cream in the 4oz
tube was going to have to go. Before I could even say, “Well, there’s hardly anything left in the tube…”
she was on to my thought process and looking at me like I was a female inmate in that Linda Blair TV prison movie from the
1970’s. She barked at me, “It’s the size that is printed on the label that matters.” (The words, “creampuff”
and “I’m going to rape you with a broom handle later” just seemed to be implied) And as the other security
guard lifted the large green dumpster lid and Candy took her best shot, there went the Clinque to the product graveyard at
the Las Vegas airport. (By the way, from a quick look before the lid was closed on the dumpster, my product really classed
the dumpster up)
So I got in a day before the big event and everything seemed to be going according to schedule. Even the most important
thing (finding a same day dry cleaner) as I had changed clothing choices at the last minute seemed to work out. We were betting
on what would go wrong so that we could somehow be prepared. Would it be the machers (know everything schemers) from the ex-in-law
side of the family coming in from out of town or would it be the fact that against better judgment, my pal had asked her sister-in-law
who once did catering to handle putting the buffets together? The snotty Jews from La Jolla I could handle but as big as a
surprise as it may be to everyone, while I have show directed major events and parties, I am one of the six gays in the world
to have never been a cater waiter…until this day. Most Bar Mitzvah boys say, “Today I am a man.” Well,
“Today I was to be a cater waiter.”
The day of the event and we have an hour and half to get the room ready and then it’s back to shower, shave
and FDS ourselves into a frenzy for the day long event. I knew there was trouble when the sister-in-law and her friend that
we supposed to do the buffets had not shown up by the time we left to go back to the houses and make magic on ourselves. This
was what we had “planned” on and we’re not shocked, well not as shocked as learning that the dogs at my
pal’s house had gotten on the counter and eaten two of the challah loaves (egg bread that’s braided – it’s
a Jew thing). Now let me take a moment to say, that I had every thought of just sort of doing the typical gay best friend
stuff, sure there would be some manual labor involved in the set up of the room but once that was done and I was dressed,
it was going to be more of a pointing here and there directing the non-gays like the fairy Godmother with the mice in Cinderella.
Thus the reason for the choice of the brand new cream colored sports jacket and the silk Keith Haring tie. I know better now.
Nothing about this
Bar Mitzvah was traditional and we were embracing it. The whole service was to be conducted by a rent-a-rabbi who was this
woman that looked as though she had been wandering for forty years with Moses, never getting to eat any of the mana God sent
(or any other food for that matter) with an oversized white Southern Baptist lady’s church hat on that seemed to look
more like a lampshade on her slight body frame. The service was not conducted in a synagogue but in the “club house”
at a very elite housing development in Arizona. So the food would be in the same room as the service and timing was going
to be everything.
Prettified, we all got back to the room and thank God, the so-called cater gals were setting up the buffets so it
looked as if our fears had been put to rest. I did however begin to notice that there were way too many moving parts to this
whole thing. There was a punch fountain, there was a chocolate fountain, there was a digital frame showing photos of the Bar
Mitzvah boy through the ages, there were chafing dishes with sterno and finally there was all the food that was being brought
in, the “faves” of the Bar Mitzvah – 400 hot wings, Chinese Food and all the sauces that go with it. Not
to mention, blow up guitars (that needed to be blown up) for the “kids”. Meanwhile, I was one of the ten Jews
in the room. As the mechanical set up began certain “tip offs” started to appear. The punch fountain, I was told
that supposedly at least three people knew how to assemble and get it started yet when asked all that anyone really knew was
that you shouldn’t plug it in until you put the punch in as it would be at risk of burning out the motor if started
dry. (First clothing tragedy coming in two sentences) So as I iced all the beverages down at the bar and it was time to start
the fountain, someone else poured the punch in the fountain with ice and when plugged, there was no cascading effect. That’s
when my pal’s mother decided that we had too much in the bottom and had to “prime it” by pouring some into
the top. As I’m ladling the excess punch out of the bottom with a four ounce silver paper cup, she starts pouring the
punch in the top of the fountain. And as I looked down, it was as if it was slow motion that my brand new coat flashed before
me and there it was a splotch, a dribble and a spooge of red punch on the top of the sleeve of the jacket. I don’t mind
telling you my interest in the whole event started to wane at this point.
I shook all of the above off and after briefing the two cater waiter gals
on the challah delivery to the tables and other timing, the Bar Mitzvah service began. Now I had to do a little Hebrew and
another reading (that I knew nothing about) during the service all the while trying to look reverent and somber by holding
my left hand over the punch stained sleeve of the jacket. (Internally cursing that there was no club soda in the club house.)
The poor
rent-a-rabbi was trying so hard with the service but there’s so much call and response in a Jewish service and without
Jews, there’s just a lot of calling. Some of my favorite moments was when the rabbi did the canter duties as well and
while singing an entire song in Hebrew would say, “Everybody sing” in the middle of a verse. These people couldn’t
have sung if someone was holding a gun to their head and they weren’t Jewish enough to know that you usually just depend
on the few people who know it and everyone else just sort of “die, de, die, dies” – keeping the tune but
not really knowing the words. (It’s like the old Name That Tune when Kathy Lee would “la la” the title of
the song while contestants tried to name it.) But after what seemed an eternity for all, the service was over and as I motioned
to the gals to bring out the challah and light their sternos we were off to the races.
Let me say that most of what happened after
that is a complete blur. The buffet almost had all the food on it by the time the crowd dove in, which pissed off the lackluster
cater gals because they had wanted to “present” the buffet. This caused some pouting and I took off the stained
jacket to head for the kitchen as I knew there was more tragedy about to befall us if I didn’t step in and make magic.
When I get into the kitchen the chocolate fountain has not been put together and yet there are all these people standing around
– including the pouting cater gals who were quickly becoming a weight around my neck about the size of what I’m
sure they put around Jimmy Hoffa before tossing him off the pier. The desserts have not even started to be prepped yet and
so it was no surprise that although I was told differently, no one knew what was to be done with the chocolate fountain. There
I am, in shirt and silk tie, trying to melt seven bags of semi-sweet chocolate chips in a microwave, stir and read the instructions
with my other hand. My pal’s mother says that it needs oil in it after it’s melted and as soon as I get it melted,
we discover that the oil should have been in before the chocolate was melted. No problem, I start to stir in the oil and back
in the microwave. “Has anyone cut the cheesecakes yet?” I scream over the din of what seems like a million people
in the kitchen doing a bunch of nothing. I look over just in time to see my pal’s father hit the deck mid-bite of a
chicken wing, having slipped in the kitchen. I send his son (who is also in the kitchen) to help him up and get him out of
the kitchen, he is fine (and now I’ve gotten at least two bodies out of the kitchen for the moment). “Ding”
goes the microwave and as I’m stirring, I hear the cater gals as they stare at the cheesecakes, “Ugh, I hate cheesecake.”
“Me too and I’m not cutting it.” And so I bellow, “I’ll cut it as soon as I get back from filling
the chocolate fountain, will someone get that door for me?” Here I go with the big bowl of chocolate the temperature
of molten lava to pour into the fountain, which was supposed to be heated up but was put in an outlet that didn’t work.
As I get there with the bowl of hot chocolate goop, children start attacking like killer bees in search of their queen who
has the honey. I see there’s no light on the fountain to let us know it’s on and with a quick hand off from my
pal’s mom, we get the chocolate poured in, the plug switched to an outlet that works and the fountain is bubbling over.
Success! But back to the dreaded kitchen to cut the cheesecakes. I get back to the kitchen to find everyone exactly where
I left them. Not a lot of working, just picking off the huge trays of food, whining and pouting. I begin to cut the cheesecakes
which have now sat out too long so they’re really hard to cut because every time I cut, most of the slice comes back
up on the knife. “Wet the knife” a voice says. It’s my pal’s father, back in the kitchen. The cater
gals watch me like I’m Criss Angel doing a magic stunt. Finally the cheesecakes go out to the dessert table.
Shvitzing from every
pore, I am more than a little wilted and moist. (Second clothing tragedy in two sentences) And so I decide to try one of the
chicken wings. Now as I’m wearing a white shirt and silk designer tie, I decide to go and eat it carefully over the
industrial sized sink. As soon as I go to pull it apart it begins to flip in the air like a professional skateboarder who
is about to have the trick go horribly wrong. As the wing is flipping through the air (with the greatest of ease) it is spewing
sauce all over the shirt, tie, pants and anything else that is me. The wing lands in the stainless sink with a ping and as
I look down, I see that I am not only not stainless but I am covered with wing sauce. Just in time to give my speech to the
Bar Mitzvah boy about what he means to me. Perfect.
And so I wiped my sweating brow with a paper napkin (hoping none of it had stuck to my forehead) put the stained
coat on over the stained shirt and tie, tried to be witty when speaking in front of the hundred or so people and as I was
speaking, I could see out of the corner of my eye that the chocolate fountain was starting to seem more like the tar pits
than a fountain and would need more chocolate. I won’t lie to you, I wanted to run away…but friends don’t
let friends go down in sterno flames alone so as I finished my speech to the Bar Mitzvah and posed for a photo I knew I had
to go back into that hell’s kitchen. The good news was that when I went back in, someone else was all ready melting
the chocolate so I was off the hook.
The rest of the function, I just sat there, stained physically and emotionally wishing it was all over. But here’s
the moral to this long story, I adore my friend and I would do anything for her, I’d even go back and relive some of
our best and worst moments in our over thirty year friendship but the next time there’s a function like this, I don’t
care if I have to stand in a hot dog costume for a year to make the money, we’re hiring a caterer, period. And the lesson
here for all of you is don’t try to do a Bar Mitzvah yourself because at the end of the day, as all Jews with any sense
know, BM also means Bar Mitzvah – The Do-it-yourself Bar Mitzvah, oh vey – Don’t Get Me Started!
Inmates doing Michael Jackson's Thriller - I can't take it!!
Prisoners
Become Thrillers – Don’t Get Me Started!
I know that this video was circulating a few weeks ago but give me a break
as I have been on vacation. The deal here is that at some prison in the Philippines the exercise they give the inmates is
very different than what we all saw on the HBO show, OZ or what I can only imagine goes on in the prison work out yard (real
prison boys, not some porno, geez let’s elevate our minds, shall we?). Here the prisoners are showing that exercise
can be fun and that truly when you dance the world dances with you. (Yes, that was sarcasm) Prisoners become Thrillers –
Don’t Get Me Started!
In an absolutely incredible display of precision, the inmates have got the
old Michael Jackson song Thriller down (as we say). From the start, with a balding male Ola Ray (Don’t ask how I know
the actress in the original video’s name) complete with pony tail you just don’t know if you should be laughing
or marveling at the murders turned zombies dancing about the yard as if Michael Peters had been there to choreograph them
himself.
I can hear the Warden
now…
Warden:
Okay, all you scum, today we’re going to learn a little Michael Jackson. A number in time for Halloween that will have
them over at Prison West jealous as hell. It’s the Thriller number!
Prisoner: Oh come on warden, we just barely got the opening to Cats and
now this?
Warden:
Listen, shut it and get in formation. And when I say you should look like zombies, you’ll look like zombies got it?
PrisOla Ray: Um, escuse
me warden? Remember last night you a promised if we did this I could be playing the girl?
Warden: You’re all ready a girl but
yes PrisOla Ray the role is all yours.
PrisOla Ray: And can I have a something prettys to wear to get into my crackerture?
Warden: Everyone’s been in your crack,
but okay, yes, all right, enough all ready. Now murderer zombies stage left and rapist zombies stage right.
Prisoner 1: But what
about me? I’m a pedophile, Warden?
Warden: Well, you’re the lead of course!
Prisoner 1: Does that mean I get a red jacket with the zippers?
Warden: You’ll dance in a jumpsuit like everyone else but if you’re
very good there could be some Jesus juice in it for you.
Prisoner 1: <confused> But my name is Jesus and I don’t have
a juice named after me.
Warden: <Obviously frustrated with Jesus and ignoring him> Come on criminals, after me…and one, two,
uh huh, duh…five, six, seven, eight.
Sometimes life imitates art, kind of makes you think about the scene from The Producers, right? I could go on some
big tirade about the fact that we don’t fund the arts in schools and yet here’s the evidence that it does so much
good (even on criminals) but for those who support the arts (and I’m sure the people who read my blog for the most part
agree with more funding for the arts) they already know and feel this way and for those who don’t, you’re just
wrong. So I’m thinking that we need to get this started in America too. Maybe Lindsay Lohan can teach an acting class
when she gets to prison (she can teach them how to act innocent on the stand). Or maybe Phil Spector can make a boy band in
prison and give them the “Wall of Sound” sound that he is so famous for (as well as give them all frightening
hair styles). At any rate, it’s something to think about and at least it keeps the prisoners out of the library where
they start to read legal books and end up sounding like the sketches Damon Wayans used to do on In Living Color, “The
edification of the ejaculation will show the pomposity of my innocence.” Prisoners become Thrillers – Don’t
Get Me Started!
Required Summer Reading List for fans of the Some Like It Scott site
The Some Like It Scott Official Summer Reading List
Well students, although many will be
going back to school soon (and some of us are wishing we were at the age we were going back to school). I mean, who didn’t
love getting all the school supplies to go back to the classes? The new book bag, the new pens…I loved getting the
supplies and as my guy always says… “Yeah, Scott had the neatest notebook in school, was failing every class
but his stuff was organized and looked great.” By the way, not true completely, he didn’t know me back then, I
did get good grades (for the most part) and was a treasured member of the theatre department (which has nothing to do with
grades but I decided to throw it in).
But I digress. While many are going back to school, I’m going on vacation for the week and as I’m always
worried you’ll all stop reading, caring or most important, liking me, I came up with the idea of creating the first
ever Some Like It Scott Summer Reading List. For those of you who joined late, the website will have it’s one year anniversary
the end of this month (and hold onto your parachute pants because there are going to be some exciting new things on the site
soon) so the blogs I’m listing are ones you may not have read but are required reading for this site.
So while I go on a family
vacation (or as I call it, Camp Co-Dependency) I hope you’ll come back everyday to read the blogs listed below, enjoy
them and then starting August 13, 2007 visit the site daily to read all the new blogs (which I’m sure will include many
stories from Camp Co-Dependency) that I’ll post.
Have a great summer, stay as sweet as you are, have a cool summer, you are 2 good 2B 4gotten – consider your
yearbook officially signed!
Happy reading,
Scott
Monday (August 6, 2007)
The blog that started it all –
People With The Fish On Their Car
A “Vintage” Don’t Get Me Started! How I got thrown out of the Cub Scouts (before they knew I was
gay and before they decided not to let any gays in…yeah, right!)
Something a little on the religious side…can
anyone really tell me who was King Wenceslas and what the served at the “feast of Stephen” and why don’t
the Christians know when they sing about it at Christmas?
There are lots more blogs to read and going through to find the ones above
I’m a bit awed at just how prolific (big word to make me feel better about myself) I have been over the past year. So
in your spare time don’t forget to look at the archived months of blog entries for something to perk you up, it’ll
be just like crunching up a Sweet Tart and snorting it! (Not that I would know)
You People With Too Much Perfume and Cologne Are Killing The Rest Of Us
And I Say
To Myself, “It’s A Smellyful World” – Don’t Get Me Started!
Long have I been one of those people
who shower every day and has a mint in his mouth to ensure the freshest breath and person possible at all times. I pride myself
on my freshness so I get why people put cologne and perfume on. What I do NOT understand are all the people who apparently
shower with a gel that has a scent, then use a moisturizer with another scent and finally top their smelltastic selves off
with so much perfume or cologne that even getting within a five mile radius of them and you’re crying like you’re
cutting onions. And I say to myself, “It’s a smellyful world” – Don’t Get Me Started!
Ben Gay is at my gym
and he smells awful. It started months ago maybe even a year ago now that on most mornings this older larger black man would
get on the elliptical machines about the same time that I would. At first I wasn’t sure what the smell was or where
it was coming from but slowly and surely I was able to determine that this guy must absolutely slather himself down with Ben
Gay (not the unscented variety). Add to it that he is doing physical exertion, making him sweat and you get a cloud of Ben
Gay that would make PigPen from the Peanuts strip proud. He’s like an invisible nuclear blast mushroom cloud. I’ve
tried to move as far down the line when he’s all ready on the machines to try and avoid it but it doesn’t help
and more often than not, he gets on the machines after I’m already on, choosing one close to me so there’s no
avoiding him or his smell. Now I was a dancer for years (get your minds out of the gutter – I know I live in Vegas now
but I didn’t always and if you think for one second my body is up to being what we call an “exotic” dancer
then you need to get out more often). Now dancers always used this stuff called Tiger Balm for joint or muscle pain that was
so damn smelly it could kill anyone within a six block radius but this whole Ben Gay stuff is so strong that it should be
called Ben Straight cause it doesn’t smell pretty enough to be gay.
Speaking of gays, while one would think that teenage boys are the biggest
offenders of too much cologne (thanks to Axe and the many imitation sprays that they are marketing to guys now) the gays are
worse. In fact I was behind a gay last night – in a store, come on people, elevate the mind for a few minutes –
it won’t kill you (may hurt a little but not kill you). I didn’t need gaydar to tell me this guy was gay and you
won’t either after I describe him to you. He was about 5’9” (no, that’s not what made him gay), had
on madras plaid shorts with a short sleeved polo shirt, collar turned up. True, while this doesn’t make him gay it doesn’t
hurt but the following seals the deal (as we say)…his hair was only highlighted in front on his bangs which had been
blown dried perfectly to create a bang in front that I’ve only ever seen on Joan Crawford in Mildred Pierce or one of
the Andrews Sisters. You know, it sort of comes away from the head and floops down with the ends barely touching the forehead.
But what pushed it over the edge completely was that he had so much cologne on that literally, you could smell him one aisle
over. It was the scent that got me first and I suppose that’s the desired effect but he smelled like someone had accidentally
doused him with six bottles of Drakkar (a heavy cologne from the late 80’s that should just be banned at this point).
God help him if anyone lit a match in his general vicinity because between the cologne and the hairspray, he’d go up
like a firework on the fourth of July! Of course my favorite thing was that he was thinking he was oh so hot and kept looking
back at me as if I was following him for a “hubba hubba” time. So wrong, I almost wanted to tell him that I was
desperately trying to get away from him and his smell.
Here’s the deal, we all like to smell nice but come on people, if the rats are coming out of the sewer to see
where the smell is coming from, you are wearing way too much perfume or cologne. Some of the absolute worst are the women
who are into all that Patchouli natural crap. Yes, you smell like you ate some tree bark and took a crap and because that
stuff is usually an oil it goes right into your system and you suddenly become one of those plug in things from Glade, spraying
your scent every time you get heated up a little. Worst of the worst are the things like Rose Water. I know that we all thought
it didn’t exist anymore but it does and I defy you to sit next to a woman wearing this shit and not end up breaking
out in hives!
The thing is that moderation
here would seem to be the key. I get that smell is a very subjective sense. (Those of us who like the smell of gasoline can
attest to that, right?) So please, when you’re spraying, dabbing or rolling that perfume or cologne on do something
for mankind and think of others that may not want to share your stinkitude. And I say to myself, “It’s a smellyful
world” – Don’t Get Me Started!
No Really,
Go Away Star Jones – Don’t Get Me Started!
And
so she’s back, (looking like she’s) from outer space. We just went online to find that tropical fish look upon
her face. (Any good gay knows those were redone lyrics from the Gloria Gaynor classic, I Will Survive) The real question is
why has she survived and why are we again being subjected to yet another bout of Star Jones in the news? Is she news? Was
she ever? The only thing we can be sure of is that she is not talented and gets on almost everyone’s nerves in the world.
No really, go away Star Jones – Don’t Get Me Started!
As I wrote previously, Star Jones has long gotten on my nerves. (Read that
here - http://hubpages.com/hub/Why_Is_Star_Jones_Back ) The thing is that she is now officially “the bad penny”
that no one can get rid of. Her latest “look at me” angle is that she is finally admitting that she was admitted
to a hospital and had gastric bypass surgery. Oh my God, that is so shocking I don’t think that I will ever get over
it. Here I thought that she lost over 160 pounds by just working out with her gay husband and eating right.
Come on people, no one
loses that amount of weight without some major surgery as opposed to her whole, “medical intervention” statement
that she made originally. And what exactly is a medical intervention? Is it a bunch of doctors confronting you in a room saying,
“Look, you are fat. We’re not going to sugar coat this (because you’d probably eat it) by saying you are
morbidly obese. Star you are a big fat, fatty boombalattty and no matter how much eye makeup you put on or chunky ethnic jewelry
you wear around your neck, it just is not going to distract anyone from the fact that you are huge, woman and we’re
here to tell you because you apparently don’t know that you have hit the rock bottom of the brownie pan. So have you
eaten in the last twenty-four hours? Do you have some nightgowns roughly the size of the tent you were married under? Because
we’re going into surgery right now if you accept this intervention.” Of course her family would be in the room
and they would be saying things like, “Star, I love you but I will no longer go to all you can eat buffets if you don’t
accept this intervention.” And then her husband would speak up, “Girl, you gots to lose the weight cause everyone
just thinks you’re the standard oversized fag hag at this point. If you slim down at least we can sort of look like
a real heterosexual couple, even though I’m not giving up my eyeliner for anyone. Doctor, by the way, how long will
she be out of the house…I mean, will she be in the hospital? I want to get my “friend” Rodolfo to redo
the bedroom while she’s away and we’re going to need to lay on a lot of…I mean look at a bunch of mattresses
before we can decide which one will be best.” With tears in her eyes and the stains of the last Whopper she would ever
eat under one of the rolls on her oversized gauze peasant blouse with ruffle collar (that she shouldn’t be wearing no
matter what size) she would put her hand in the air, leaving it for Jesus to guide her. At this point, Jesus probably stopped
whatever he was doing and treated her chubby hand with too many rings on it as serious as the bat signal. Swooping down he
would land lightly in the room, appearing only to her and say, “Star, the time has come for you to be made in my image
and you don’t ever see an image of me with that blouse on, horizontal stripes or not being able to fit into an airplane
seat in coach do you? Not that I’d ever go coach but you get the idea. Yes, I love you this you know for the bible tells
you so and that’s why I’m saying go forth with these doctors and let them try to make a purse (a Kate Spade one
cause I simply love what she does) out of you, the sow’s ear. And by the way, if you ever get back on television, let
them know that I never talked to George W. Bush, will you?” And just as magically as he came, he would have disappeared.
Star would lower her hand (and after a Baby Ruth feel out of the sleeve of her blouse) walk quietly with the doctors humming
“Amazing Grace.” The “medical intervention” a success.
If anyone thinks that Ms. Jones is admitting the surgery now for any reason
other than publicity you’re just crazy. And for those of you who say, “Well, why are you even talking about her
if you want her to go away?” You have officially missed the point of every post that has ever been on Some Like It Scott!
Bitter looks great on me and it’s my job to let people know the many things that “start” me and ask that
you “Don’t Get Me Started!” The many reasons she should go away are so obvious that they really don’t
need to be listed. Anyone who saw her on The View with her “high and mighty” haughty attitude (while she was raping
every guest that came on the show for free stuff for her wedding) knows the same as I do that she was as they said about Eva
Peron in the musical “slap in the right place at the perfect time” but now she needs to be put out of our misery.
Here’s the deal,
she can go away for a few years and then come back and sell something on QVC (because I don’t watch QVC) but I don’t
want to see her in the media any more, sucking what’s left of her cheeks in and acting as if she’s the Ponce De
Leon of weight loss. She didn’t unlock the mysteries of life, she didn’t lose weight by asking, “What would
Jesus eat” the diet or even marry a straight man. So I say, “Next.” No really, go away Star Jones –
Don’t Get Me Started!
began years
ago when I was at dinner with a producer from a dinner theater where I worked for eleven years. (It's what I refer to
as My Dazzling Dinner Theater Days)
I was riled up about something and this producer
said, "You should have a radio show where people call and get you fired up and you just go off." As I had a reputation
for going on a tirade the likes of Dixie Carter on Designing Women (remember this was years ago) and as I was constantly starting
my sentences with the phrase above; when I started blogging I decided that this might be a way to get my rants out to the
public at large.
I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoy writing
them.
Scott
Forty-Something Gay
Since the site began in August of 2006, people have been writing in (okay, mostly my Mother) telling me that
I needed to do a video blog (or “vblog”) like Rosie and everyone else in the world. Writing the “Don’t
Get Me Started” blog five times a week is daunting enough without adding video production on top of it. Plus, what would
be different about the video blog from the written blog? After the huge response from my blog about being a Forty-Something
Gay during Pride week, it hit me that my video blog would feature topics for us garden variety Forty-Something Gays! I hope
you enjoy them as well as the rest of the Some Like It Scott site!
Some Music While You Read?
At the request of Some Like It Scott reader, Grayson (though
I'm sure some others agree) you can now read or listen or read and listen when on the "Don't Get Me Started"
page. Click below to turn the music on and scroll to the bottom to find out what you're listening to!
That's right, Don't Get Me Started! I have no
idea what I was thinking. Well, not true, I thought it looked fabulous. The hair was sufficiently “palmed” out
to give it height and that’s not a shadow you see behind my head, it’s the true bi-level cut of the 80’s
going on, not a mullet, my friends, an honest to goodness Duran Duran inspired bi-level! I had purchased this Gulden's
mustard colored all silk suit at Bloomingdale's with the collarless purple silk shirt and just knew I looked fabulous.
(What a difference a decade or so makes, huh?)
Anyway, I was simply overwhelmed by how many people wrote in telling
me about their hair and fashion disasters, everything from a "Super Freak" outfit to get into a Rick James concert
to a swell guy who wrote about his perm that gave him that “greatest star” Streisand “Star Is Born”
look, or so he thought until he reflected back on it “with one more look at you.”
What's your fashion disaster that was caught on film?
