All The Things I’m Not – Don’t Get Me Started!

I’m not sure if it’s the close of the current year or the fact that it’s quite possible I could really be going through a mid-life crisis of sorts (all though I’m forty-four so that would mean that if it truly is a “mid-life” thing then I would live to be eighty-eight. Hmmm. I kind of like that, that seems to be an age where you can still be ambulatory but aren’t quite stopping everyone on the street to tell them stories that they really don’t care about, like the first time you chewed gum or something – also, eighty-eight are how many keys there are on a piano which appeals to my musical sensibilities.) At any rate, recently I began to think about all the things I’m not – Don’t Get Me Started!

I was just sitting around the house one day and suddenly my head was filled with thoughts. I can’t remember exactly what precipitated it (is that my age too?) but I remember that when all was said and done I felt better than when I started. That’s right, I had been groomed from an early age to believe that the only thing worth being in this life was famous. Not only because it gave you accolades and money so you could buy your parents a house, your brother that car he always wanted and a host of other things that it seemed as though only the famous people could do (well to me anyway) but because people liked you, envied you, thought you were special.

I think it’s probably true of a lot of people but your life is sometimes more interesting when you look back at it rather than while it’s happening. When I tell people some of the things that I’ve done they look at me rather amazed and for the life of me I just can’t figure out why as it just seemed like the normal progression of things for me. I started out doing theatre at the age of six so if I ended up choreographing for Disneyland, coaching Olympic skaters rink side on performance and directing theatre at a regional theatre and Virginia Opera ,(among other things) it all seemed like a rather logical progression to me. And now that I’ve joined corporate America for the past ten years or so it’s only when I look back on all of the theatrical stuff that makes me think, “Wow, I really did all that?” And then of course the next thought is, “How come I never made it to Broadway? Why am I not still doing theatre today?” Sure there are logical answers, the not having to worry what your next job is going to be, the having health benefits, etc. But there’s more here and I wasn’t afraid to delve.

It started out very simply. I thought, “I’m never going to be tall.” Silly, right? But that’s how it all started and it made me laugh. Then I thought, “I’m never going to be gay thin.” Although I’m at my heaviest in my lifetime, even if I only ate celery the rest of my life I’d never be gay thin or have the body that I’ve always thought I should just have by osmosis – you know, great arms, abs and ass. I’m probably not ever going to make it on Oprah’s couch for an interview on the book I wrote that is an enormous success and on her book of the month club. There are so many things that I’m simply “not” and the more things that I thought of that I was not the more a sense of relief came over me. Strange but that was the feeling.

Why relief? I’m not sure. I think it’s because as I’ve gone through my life I’ve always been someone who had the idea that whatever I was doing right at the moment was just something to make money or do until my “real” life began. Chalk it up to youth or something but I really thought, “Oh, I’m just doing this or that thing for now until I get discovered and get famous and then my life will begin. No really, that’s when it will begin.” Just a simple lie I told myself but one that I kept telling myself over and over for years. So maybe, just maybe the feeling of relief was for finally letting myself accept my life for my life and not waiting for some fantasy to come true all on its own with little to no help from me (other than my amazing talents, of course). Maybe it was that I finally took the time to realize all the things I wasn’t (and wasn’t ever going to be – you know, like tall) were not worth all the time and energy I’d put into thinking about them all these years? That’s where the relief came from, from seeing my life as it is and not beating myself up for the things that I’m not. Sure I still want to be on Broadway and famous but the gift I’m giving myself this year is to not worry about all the things I’m not and begin to have pride and happiness in all the things I am. I highly recommend it. All the things I’m not – Don’t Get Me Started!

Does Anyone Just Push A Button Once? – Don’t Get Me Started!

Like a child new to the world and just able to articulate all of the “why” questions they ask, as the year comes to a close I find myself with more questions on my mind than answers. Surely at this stage in my life I’m supposed to have some answers, right? (There you go - another question) Thing is that I’ve found out it’s just the opposite I have more and more questions and less and less answers. On a recent trip I was sitting in the passenger side of a car when we were stopped at a light. As we sat there I noticed there were two people waiting to cross the street in the crosswalk. The one person pushed the button for the “walk” light and then within less than a second they had pushed it again. And although the two of them were together, the other person came over and pushed the button about three times. Three more people came to the street corner, two adults and one child. The two adults each pushed the button numerous times and then the child continued pushing the button until the light had changed and all of them could cross the street. So I have to wonder, does anyone push a button just once? – Don’t Get Me Started!

My family was never granted the goodness of being patient. Out of my mother, father, brother and myself I would have to put my patience at about the lowest of the bunch. Things just can’t go fast enough for me. And after the button pushing viewing above, I realized that I am one of the absolute worst when it comes to button pushing. When I end a call with someone on my Iphone I have to hit the “end call” button at least three times. It’s not that I have OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) it’s that I’m not taking the time to see if the call has actually ended before pushing the button a second and third time. Or that I just want to make sure that I’ve ended the call so that the person I was speaking to doesn’t hear my aside of, “Jesus, that’s twenty minutes of my life I’ll never get back.” Although it’s actually taking more time somewhere in my head I feel as though I’m saving time. Saving time? What a millisecond? Or am I in actuality wasting a millisecond?

So is it impatience or perhaps an unfounded insecurity about technological systems and products? How many times have you clicked too many times on something when you’re emailing or using your computer? And when your computer isn’t responding, how many times do you hit, “ctrl, alt + del” or “end program” to try and “undo” or get your computer to respond? Did it really work after the seven hundredth time you pushed it? Or maybe as you were pushing over and over again, the computer finally recognized the first time you pushed the button(s). Perhaps like the elderly are always encouraging us as kids to “take our time” perhaps that’s the one thing that we just never learned.

I don’t know what will happen if you only push a button once to cross the street or if only pushing the “end call” button on my phone once is going to make me happier, healthier or richer but I think that perhaps my getting older has taught me something after all, perhaps just perhaps it has taught me to take my time. So I’m going to do my best to only push things once and wait and see what happens before pushing them again. Of course as I’ve always been someone who has been known for pushing peoples’ “buttons” emotionally (getting them angry and frustrated) maybe as the New Year begins just maybe I’ll stop pushing peoples’ buttons over and over again. But probably not for as my grandmother used to say, “I can dish it out but I can’t take it.” Does anyone push a button just once? – Don’t Get Me Started!

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Am I A Snob? – Don’t Get Me Started!

As I waited for my flight in the Philadelphia airport I looked around. After all, these were the people I’d be spending the next five hours with in a tin can soaring across the sky. How do you not sit at the gate, looking around to check out who you may or may not be sitting next to? How do you not hope that it won’t be the guy who is so enormous, he’ll surely take up an entire row himself? How do you not see the woman with the two year old running around the gate out of control and not hope that you don’t get seated next to them? How do you not say a small prayer that the people who have just bought so much smelly food you’d think they were stacking the shelves of their bomb shelter will be sitting at the other end of the plane? Am I a snob? – Don’t Get Me Started!

On the whole I try to be as tolerant of people as I’d like them to be of me. But there I was, sitting at the gate at the airport and I knew I was in trouble. First of all, the whole USAir, let me charge you $15 for just about everything yet let us have the oldest, dirtiest planes in the world experience was enough to make my skin begin to crawl but one look around and you suddenly discover just why this was the cheapest flight at the last minute. Even with paying my $15 for a “premium choice seat” I was in the group that would be boarding the plane last. This is always a problem because let’s face it; people are animals when it comes to the overhead bin space. And so it would come to pass that although I was in row eleven, I was the last one to board the plane (convinced that I was the only one in boarding “zone” 8). Before I even got into the plane they were telling everyone that there would be no more carryon luggage allowed unless it fit under your seat. Now can someone please explain to me just why someone who pays extra for a seat and is supposed to have premium seating should not have any space left over his head? I convinced the woman at the gate that the roller briefcase I had would indeed go under the seat and once I got in there I was right, of course this meant no legroom whatsoever. Now I’m short but I’m not THAT short!

As I settled in and tried not to think about five hours in this seat, it began. The row behind me was a family, an enormous woman, with her enormous husband and one of their enormous children. On the other side of the row, were the “in-laws” just as large as the others and another large child with his nose pressed against the glass. The mother behind me was one of those large women with an even larger voice. Her voice sounded like she had swallowed gravel with a broken glass chaser. She had no volume control and not only was she screaming at her husband but she was screaming at her son and everyone else on the plane it seemed. “I have enough magazines for the whole trip so don’t you worry. Here’s one with an article on tweens. I’m going to read it to you Brian so you know that I know what you’re going through and we can talk about it on the flight. What the fuck? This magazine is from last year. Ha. Screw this! Eddie, are you looking out the window over there? Tell Nana that I have some lip stuff from Avon if she needs it.” This ongoing monologue continued for the entire five hours. When they weren’t screaming at one another, they were playing some sort of Chinese fire drill where everyone would use the back of my seat to try and hoist their largeness out of their seat (complete with grabbing my hair) so that one of the kids or one of them could be at the window. This seemed to happen every twenty minutes like clockwork.

The large man in front of me had his seat so far leaned back that he was literally in my lap for the entire time. He was sitting sort of side saddle in his seat and would stand up in his seat whenever the woman behind me would scream to Brian that there was a mountain or clouds outside the window. Although he was on the aisle he would half-stand and lean over the people sitting next to him, trying to see out the window. He was loud and paid for a lot of cocktails and in between trying to talk to his wife several rows behind him, flirting with the flight attendant he would occasionally come out with such gems as, “Fuck, I can’t wait to get out of here and have a cigarette.”

So there I was, on the white trash express. I can’t help it. I know that some people would say, “Oh Scott, you just ran into some rude people.” but what I came across was like some strange convention of people who thought that the Jerry Springer show taped in Las Vegas or something. It was the longest five hours I’ve spent in a very long time and whether you think it’s judgmental or not I don’t care. For all the money you pay extra for some of these airlines it’s my thought that they should forget about the “premium seats” and just make it $25 to get out of the white trash rows. That I would have gladly paid. Am I a snob? – Don’t Get Me Started!

USAir – The $15 Airline – Don’t Get Me Started!

Okay, to a certain extent I agree that it’s all my fault. I waited until the last possible moment to make my travel arrangements to fly back east for the holidays. Dumb, right? Well, yes it is considering the same ticket I had been “eyeing” a month earlier was now $200 more but since I had resigned myself to the fact that this would not be the first time in twenty years I would not not spend Christmas with my guy and his family, what else could I do? I made the reservation. Now I used to travel all the time for business and while I would like to say that it gave me extensive knowledge as to which airline was better than another in reality I just went where they told me when they told me and let the travel agent decide. At my current job I’m completely spoiled as I usually am on the corporate jet so I admit my view of air travel may be a bit skewed. However, never in my life have I experienced what I am experiencing right now, as we speak. That’s right, I’m writing this from many thousand feet in the air on USAir – the $15 Airline – Don’t Get Me Started!

It all started when my travel agent called to let me know that if I wanted to, I could upgrade to first class on my flight within a week of traveling for $150 each way. Now, all ready having paid more than I thought I should have had to pay, this was not an option for me. (And now that I’ve seen the “supposed” first class – it’s only worth the $15 that I’ve had to pay for everything else). Now at first I thought that the cheaper upgrade than most airlines was a good thing, kind of cool and made sense to me that instead of the usual, having to determine what the current market price is of the seat, whether the house is in Aquarius for a Saturn car dealership (here’s the price) you could upgrade.  

‘Twas the night before travel and all through my house I was packing my bags as my cats got in and out of my luggage looking for what? A mouse? And so I went online to check in for my flight. I hadn’t realized when I told the travel agent that any aisle seat would do that I had in fact ended up in row 28 of the plane. Well, as I went to see what other seats were available, I noticed that there was a sweet aisle seat in row 5. As I clicked on my new much better seat a window popped up letting me know that would be $15 please. What? I thought to myself, what the hell is this? But deciding that since I wasn’t being a sport for the $150 to get into first class, for $15 I could at least get the first class breezes. There was even a part of me that thought this was a good idea for the airlines to make some more money and for last minuters like me to still seem as though we had planned ahead to our fellow travelers. Little did I know it was just beginning of what would be a nickel and dime you to death experience.

I arrived at the airport ridiculously early as there had been some “weather” back east and I wanted to make sure that I could find a spot in the economy parking lot at the airport. (As no one is really from Las Vegas, parking at the airport is always at a premium around the holidays.) As I took the shuttle from the parking lot with only a few people on it I thought this was a good sign that all would be easy sailing on this trip. As I entered the airport there were several long lines all ready in progress for some airlines and yet, USAir seemed to have less than a third of the other airlines (my mind immediately began racing – was this why I was able to get a ticket? How bad were things going to get here?) The smiling older woman pointed me to a kiosk and I began the check-in of my baggage. After inserting my credit card and it finding my flight it asked me to let the machine know how many bags I would be checking. I depressed the “1” on the screen and immediately a screen popped asking for, you guessed it, $15. Now I had heard of airlines charging for bags but I hadn’t actually experienced it before and for some reason I had told myself that it was only on the second bag. Using the “back” buttons I went through the process again, only to discover that indeed I was going to have to pay to get even my one bag checked. As I waited in the line for the desk agent to give me my printed label for my suitcase I was thinking about how I had gone with the middle sized suitcase in my luggage set of three and how I should have taken the larger case had I known it was going to cost $15. The older woman ran after me with a flimsy piece of paper. It was my receipt for my baggage payment. As she looked down into my hand she saw the boarding pass I had printed the night before. She chastised me for not going to the “check bags only” kiosk and I looked at her as if she was crazy as there was no line and I had paid my $15 so what the hell else did they want from me?

As I waited at the gate, half-asleep for my journey I couldn’t help but notice that my “premier seating” was in “zone 7” for boarding. What this means is that you’re the last one to board the damn plane and since everyone is traveling with the worst kind of crap gifts for everyone they know at this time of year that meant I could kiss overhead space good bye. As we waited for boarding, the agent at the gate desk kept getting on the microphone announcing how many first class seats were still available for $150. He did it in such a way that it seemed as though he might guess your weight as well. “Okay folks, we do have one seat left in first class for $150. That’s right, just one left.” At once I knew that he had been turned down as an infomercial host and was trying to make up for it. For a moment, the Jew in me thought that he’d come down in price as it got closer to the flight and if he had gone to $75 I would have considered it – being that it would have then been like a half off sale of sorts and couldn’t be considered the dreaded “retail.” Had he thrown in the lemon zester I might have considered it at the full $150.

So we get on the plane, I shove my coat in the overhead bin, shove my bag under the seat in front of me where it’s lodged so tight from lack of space that no doubt to get it out was going to require grease or some sort of lubricant (too bad my lubricant was in the checked luggage). My $15 extra seat doesn’t recline. I have no room for anything and as I’m writing this, I have my feet leaning out (side saddle) into the aisle so that I can have the bag out of its cramped quarters and my computer on the tray. No doubt I’ll need a hip replacement when this is all over.

As the flight attendant came around with the “bistro snacks” for sale I was sleeping (well, sort of) but I was awake enough to hear how shocked the women beside me were to discover that their coffee was going to be a $1 and the Diet Coke was going to set them back $1.50. When the flight attendant came back to offer a refill, how could you blame the woman for asking how much it would cost? Apparently coffee refills are free and as she asked if the woman wanted sugar or cream. I was thinking (like a good Jew) that if it was me I would have asked for every cream and sugar she had if it was free and then sell it for some increment that involved a “1” and a “5” like they did with the $1 coffee, $15 seat upgrade and luggage $1.50 soda and finally the $150 first class “upgrade.” The woman who took the refill of coffee began telling the center seat person (whom she didn’t know) that on a Southwest flight she took recently they couldn’t give you enough snacks. And I sat in quiet anger that I hadn’t booked Southwest for this trip, as I used to use them quite a bit, like them and my uncle stopped being a rabbi and is now a flight attendant for them. (Don’t ask)

They just pulled the mesh curtain (that looks like something they would use on Trading Spaces to theme a kid’s room as a medieval castle or something. It has that mesh chain mail feel to it but is completely see-through). And while I was right, I can indeed “get the breezes” from first class from my upgraded seat, I’d pay another $15 not to have to smell the stench that is whatever the hell it is they’re serving them.

All this to say, that indeed air travel has lost all its glamour and if you want to fly USAir you’d better  treat it like going to a strip bar and have a lot of singles on you because they’re going to $15 you to death. USAir – the $15 Airline – Don’t Get Me Started!

Holiday Blogs 2008 – Don’t Get Me Started!

Well, the time has come once again to bid adieu to the year and for me to make my yearly pilgrimage to Delaware to spend the holidays with my mate’s family. I’ve oft said that the great thing about having a Jew and Christian in a relationship is that it makes going to each other’s families for holidays so much easier (of course not so easy when the Hanukkah and Christmas overlap like this year but on most years it’s a safe bet that you know where you’ll be for Christmas and where you’ll be spending Passover). This is true of both the straight couples and gay couples. They may be able to stop us from getting married (for now) but holiday and family drama is an equal opportunity visitor.

So as I take the week off to travel I would have way too much guilt if I didn’t leave you with some blogs to hold you over until I return. So with that, alas, here it is…some of my more favorite blogs (video and “Don’t Get Me Started!”) for you to watch and read when you need a smile or some advice on how to get through this thing we call the “holidays” (though if you ask me, dealing with planes, trains and relatives is far from a holiday in my book).

And if you aren’t a frequenter to the site, be sure and go to the Home Page to check out me and all the humiliating characters I played in various Christmas Shows when I used to be in the Show Biz.

http://www.somelikeitscott.com

Have a Yule that’s cool, ya’ll!

Scott

VBlogs

http://hubpages.com/hub/Forty-Something-Gay---This-Holiday-Season--YOU-Be-The-Gift

http://hubpages.com/hub/Whos-To-Blame-For-The-Crazy-Holiday-Shoppers-The-Wise-Men

Blogs

http://hubpages.com/hub/Ladies-Please-Dont-Tell-Me-Its-Sequined-Holiday-Sweater-Season-All-Ready

http://hubpages.com/hub/More-On-Holiday-Sweaters-And-Why-You-Shouldnt-Wear-Them-

http://hubpages.com/hub/The-MikWright-Kids-Have-Done-It-Again

http://hubpages.com/hub/Stop-The-Holidays-I-Want-To-Get-Off

http://hubpages.com/hub/So-Just-Who-Do-You-Think-MAKES-The-Yuletide-Gay-

http://hubpages.com/hub/I-Know-Im-A-Jew-But-Are-These-New-Christmas-Songs-The-Worst-Or-What-

http://hubpages.com/hub/Okay--I-Admit-It-Im-A-Closet-Christmas-Music-Listener-

http://hubpages.com/hub/Whats-A-Nice-Jewish-Gay-Boy-Like-Me-Doing-On-A-Hanukkah-Like-This-

http://hubpages.com/hub/Going-Out-To-Dinner-For-The-Holidays-Is-Not-As-Bad-As-You-Think

http://hubpages.com/hub/Holidayitis

http://hubpages.com/hub/How-To-Answer-The-Dreaded--How-Was-Your-Holiday-Question

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Yes Virginia, There’s Actually MORE Than Santa Claus – Don’t Get Me Started!

Disclaimer: Sometimes I surprise myself. I started out (as I do with most blogs) coming up with the title. I intended it to be a caustic romp about the holidays being more than just Christians and their fat guy with the high cholesterol in the red suit. As I started writing I discovered that any bitchy sarcasm that I had intended to write went away. So while I’m sure this is not what I started out to write, I’m pleasantly surprised to find that it didn’t make me cringe either. Santa, is that you?

There’s a famous letter to the editor (supposedly) written many moons ago where a young girl named Virginia wrote in asking the editor of a newspaper whether or not there was a Santa Claus. The letter and reply are legendary now and someone even put it all to music, if you really want to listen to it. Basically the reply consists of the editor telling Virginia that indeed Santa does exist, in fact “he exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist.” So as we get closer and closer to the magical date of Christmas (and for some of us, Hanukkah) and with the newspapers going bankrupt, I thought I’d take a stab at answering Virginia’s question. Yes Virginia, there’s actually MORE than Santa Claus – Don’t Get Me Started!

Okay Virginia, here’s the deal. Yes, there’s a Santa Claus, in fact there are many, many Santa Clauses because as the world population grows it just seems as though Santa needs some help. You see, like many things in life that you’re going to experience, sometimes you can’t do it all alone. And although there are going to be times when you feel all alone just know that there’s always someone out there to talk to (even if you have to pay them to listen – i.e., a therapist). But let’s not get so hung up on the guy in the red suit for a minute, okay?

Think about the last time you did something nice for someone. Do you remember something? Okay, now most likely you weren’t wearing a red suit and didn’t have a white beard but the fact that you were giving of yourself basically made you a Santa Claus too. You see, when you do something for someone else that’s called, “being nice” and we all know about the naughty and nice list right? And what about that list? Can someone be completely naughty or completely nice? Sorry to say I don’t think this is the case. I think we each have a choice we make every day (in fact sometimes several times in the day) to decide whether to be naughty or nice. Sometimes, being a little naughty feels good. You know, like when an extra gumball falls out of the machine and you didn’t pay for it. Don’t get hung up on this stuff as being naughty, just enjoy the gum ball. However, you also need to understand that there are certain times when you can be too naughty, say kicking your brother or being intentionally mean to someone. Those kinds of things will get you on the “naughty side” of the list pronto! And niceness is more than just doing what you’re told (sometimes the nicest thing you can do is not doing what you’re told. If someone tells you not to talk to or not to be friends with someone because they look or believe differently than you, that is not being nice. Use your good judgment and make a friend. You can never have too many).

Now here’s the hardest part to understand, Virginia. A lot of people use Santa’s picture to sell you stuff. The only thing that Santa sells is a feeling and it’s completely free. The feeling is that we should be good to one another and live in peace and harmony. Throughout your life there are going to be a lot of people who try to sell you a lot of stuff. And sometimes they’re going to wear a Santa suit to try and convince you to buy what they’re selling. Learn the difference early on between a “need” and a “want” – a “need” is food or clothing while a “want” is a new Nintendo system, game or a flat screen television to play the game on. “Needs” give you something that helps you survive on the planet. A “want” usually ends up in a box somewhere forgotten because another “want” took its place and then another “want” and another “want” and it just keeps going until your garage is full of old “wants” and nothing you need. It’s okay to want things it’s just important to remember the difference between a need and want, okay?

Finally Virginia when in doubt listen to your heart. How do you listen to your heart? Get somewhere very quiet and close your eyes. Let every thought that ever came into your head go whizzing around like some sort of word/thought roller coaster in your mind. And after a few minutes of the roller coaster whizzing around it will pull into the station and your mind will be free of all the whizzing thoughts and if you’re quiet enough and listen enough you’ll hear your heart. Your heart knows you better than anyone and what you’ll find is that it will help you make the right decision every time.

So while it’s great that Santa brings toys, I’m here to tell you that your heart can bring you much more than any man in a red suit. Listen to your heart, share your heart and you’ll find the gifts you get are more precious than anything that comes wrapped with a bow. Yes Virginia, there’s actually MORE than Santa Claus – Don’t Get Me Started!

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What Does The Song Going Through Your Head When You Wake Really Mean? – Don’t Get Me Started!

I’m sure that I’m going to find out that psychologically speaking I’m really much sicker than I had imagined. For those of you who don’t read my blog on a regular basis (and shame on you) you’d know all about the games my family plays (which could never be confused with reindeer games). One of my family’s absolute favorites is “I’m sicker than you are” it goes a little like this, if I say to my mother, “Oy, I have such a headache today.” Her response normally goes something like this, “Pain? You think you know pain? I was up all night with a head that can only be an aneurysm and from all my tossing and turning, I kept your father up all night who is so tired he doesn’t know if he’s coming or going today and you know he’s not well anyway and I’m sure I’ll be dead by tonight. Did you go to a doctor yet? Yours could be an aneurysm too but mine is probably worse.” So you see my mother always manages to be just a bit sicker than me. But per usual I digress. What happened this morning was not unlike a lot of mornings where I awake with a song playing full blast in my head even though there is no clock radio going. And so I have to wonder what does the song going through your head when you wake really mean? – Don’t Get Me Started!

Now at this time of year I know that you’re probably all thinking that I had some song about a menorah or some shoes that some dirty kid was trying to buy his mother so that she would look good when she met Jesus (see that blog here… http://hubpages.com/hub/I-Know-Im-A-Jew-But-Are-These-New-Christmas-Songs-The-Worst-Or-What- ) but such was not the case. No, this morning I could distinctly hear in my head, “Mama, life had just begun. And now I’ve gone and thrown it all away.” That’s right, Queen’s immortal song, Bohemian Rhapsody and at a most glum portion of the song. Oh no there was no, “Thunderbolts and Lightning, very, very frightening” or even a “Scaramouche will you do the fandango?” No, it was all about life having just begun and being thrown away. Hmmm, could it be my subconscious is trying desperately to tell me something that I don’t want to hear in my “awake” hours?

I had always imagined myself as a rather happy go lucky kind of guy. I would much prefer to be writing this telling everyone that I couldn’t believe it but there it was Wham! In my head singing, “Wake me up before you go, go.” Or perhaps even a little Crystal Gayle singing about brown eyes turning blue or my baby taking the morning train but life ending Freddie Mercury (whose own life ended way too soon)? ARGH. No doubt my therapist from Australia is going to have an absolute field day with this one.

The real problem of course is that I don’t want to go to bed tonight for fear of what will be going through my head at the moment of consciousness tomorrow morning. Perhaps I could try singing the entire score of Annie right before I go to bed so as to maybe end up with something like, “Tomorrow” on the morrow? Or I could do my best to stay asleep until the clock radio actually does wake me with something holiday and sickeningly sweet. I don’t know but I do know it’s scary. That’s right, I said it, scary. Because when your mind is trying to tell you something that you don’t want to hear you have little choice but to listen, right? And as I’m writing this I’m thinking that I want to take even more control of this situation (as only a complete control freak such as myself would do) and I’m hearing the youth Nazi anthem from Cabaret in my head, “Tomorrow Belongs To Me.” Well, let’s hope it does or at the very least I end up with a cheerier refrain in my head because otherwise I really will need to start thinking about my New Year’s resolution including some therapy. (Nighttime musical therapy). what does the song going through your head when you wake really mean? – Don’t Get Me Started!

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It’s Not Too Late To Make That Holiday Call – Don’t Get Me Started!

I know, the title sounds like one of those ads on television or a catalog that comes in the mail. Everything around us tells us that we still have time to buy that piece of crap thing that we wouldn’t want to get ourselves to give that someone supposedly special. But I’m here to tell you it’s not too late to make that holiday call – Don’t Get Me Started!

The call that I’m talking about is the one that you know you want to make but you’re afraid to make. It’s the call to that loved one or friend you started exchanging gifts with years ago and now it’s more of a burden than anything else. Not that you don’t still love that person or want to get them a gift but there are years (and I’ve had about three of them now) where you’re completely stumped and let’s face it it’s lost that glow of holiday magic and you suddenly feel like “Grumpy The Elf” (a cross between an elf and Grumpy from Snow White). I’m here to tell you that it’s not too late to make THAT call. That’s right, the call that says, “Did you buy me anything yet? If not, how about we don’t exchange gifts this year?”

Last year I made the call to several friends. The first one I have to admit that I didn’t do very well with but by the third one I had found my rhythm.  The idea I had last year was that I would rather spend time with my friends than get a gift from them. The idea isn’t a new one. Basically it’s giving your pals the gift of time. I don’t know about you but time is the most precious commodity I have these days. Well, I’d like to say that it worked great but what it did was alleviate the guilt of the not gift giving but truth be told, the “time” never came to go here or there to spend time with my pals. (You see, my pals are all out of state so you’re not talking about just making sure you meet for coffee once a week with a pal that lives where you live.) What I discovered was that time was indeed a commodity that was so precious that I didn’t let go of it. And what was supposed to give both me and the recipient joy at getting to spend time together just never happened at all. What is they say about the road to hell being paved with good intentions? Well, I always knew I was going to end up in hell but I have to pave the way too? Ugh, too much work.

Well, this year the call came to me. My best gal pal in the world called to check in and eventually the conversation got to where she had intended it to go. After discussing the economy and our frustrations at life in general she told me that she, her husband and kids didn’t need anything this year so if I hadn’t shopped for them she would prefer if I didn’t shop for them at all. Yes! It wasn’t me this year, and the relief was delightful. I also begged that she tell her mother not to shop for us. You see, from high school and right through my twenties, I spent Christmas with her and her family every year. Christmas Eve, her mother and I would pour the wine and wrap gifts. Christmas morning was the big breakfast with the big family they had where tempers always flared and my pal’s Grandmother’s second husband could be guaranteed to say something to piss everyone off. I remember one year he stood up at the table and went on and on about aliens. What a show and how much fun that it wasn’t my family (though I certainly feel like a member of their family).

So I thought that I was safe, thought I had covered all my bases. Talked to everyone, decided there would be no gifts and I must say I was feeling pretty good about myself once again. But when you’re a gay Jewish man decent self esteem is always a fleeting matter. Today as I got home from work there it was, the box from my pal’s mother. ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

I thought that I had saved myself and the people I knew from the gift thing this year but ‘twas not to be. So I’m just telling you that even though I’ve had minimal success, I believe in the concept of giving someone your time instead of a sweater or gift card. I believe in friendship being worth more than a present. So don’t be afraid, I can tell you that no matter what happens it will all be just fine.  It’s not too late to make that holiday call – Don’t Get Me Started!

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I Hope Daryl Hall And John Oates Are Gay – Don’t Get Me Started!

The other night on The Daily Show with John Stewart he had on Hall & Oates. As I looked at them (and thought about all the times in my life that I had listen to their music having received at least part of my “Adult Education” from them) I couldn’t help but think to myself, I hope Daryl Hall and John Oates are gay – Don’t Get Me Started!

Now for some of you, you may be picturing me with my Duran Duran hair and oversized blazer with the enormous Joan Collins shoulder pads as an impressionable teenager sitting in my room, holding the album cover and singing along with “Private Eyes” and you would be right. Did I love Hall & Oates because of their music, their hair, their fashion, well I loved them because all of it. And while some may think that there is some sort of homoerotic reason that I want Hall & Oates to be gay, I’m here to tell you that this is not the case. I don’t want to picture them making the “monkey love” at all. It just seems to me that both of them seem really nice and since they have been together as a group for all these many years there’s a fantasy I have about gay couples that includes them being committed to one another for years and years and just living their lives loving one another. Maybe it’s because I myself reached the twenty year mark this year in my own relationship. I don’t know but wouldn’t it be nice to think of them together all these years, making music together, loving one another? No big flashy coming out like Lance Bass or some of the others that are shoved out of the closet these days by hysterical gays on the Internet but just a nice couple of guys who happen to be a couple and in love.

There’s a large part of me that thinks if there were some “normal” or what I tend to call, “garden variety gay” couples who were like, “Yeah, we’re gay…and???” That perhaps things like being accepted and being able to marry might come easier to us.

There are other male couples outside of the music industry (get your minds off Wham! As we all know that Andrew what’s-his-face is not gay and George Michael plays three shows a day on his knees in apparently any public restroom) no, I’m thinking more wholesome (like Hall & Oates) like say, Bert and Ernie? Wouldn’t it be great if Bert and Ernie finally admitted that they shared more than an apartment and a rubber duckie? I remember when Sesame Street first came on. My mother got a call from the neighbor, “Lois, turn on PBS. You are not going to believe this. There is a show where there are colored people and white people living on the same street! You watch it but I’m not letting my kids look at programs like this and you shouldn’t either.” My mother didn’t see what the big deal was about the blacks and whites living on the same street, she was more worried about the fact that I wanted to wear a cape everywhere, the bottom part of one of those plastic things toys used to come in from gum ball machines as a monocle, counting everything and then very loudly proclaiming, “Ha, ha, ha!” (This would be the closest I would ever come to being interested in or being good at math.) My point is that no one gives the fact that blacks, whites, birds and monsters are all living on the same street anymore. In fact it did us as a society good and made us more accepting. So me thinks that along with breaking ground like letting Buffy Saint Marie breast feed on the Street de Sesame that perhaps a gay couple might be a good idea too.

Now before all of the people who write about “indoctrinating” children in the gay culture start sending me additional hate mail, let me assure you that first of all I don’t care what you have to say and second of all, I don’t want to indoctrinate anyone (in fact, I’d like to give a few gays back – if you know what I mean). I just don’t want anyone to be afraid of us gays and truth be told we have more to be afraid of you than you do of us.

Maybe that’s the whole crux of this issue, fear. Maybe everyone’s just afraid of the unknown. Remember how afraid you were the first day of school? The first day of high school? The first day of your job? The first time you “you-know-what?” Maybe we just need someone to take the straightees by the hand and let them know there’s nothing to fear but fear itself as JFK once said. Or maybe we just need some established pairing of two men to simply state they’re gay and it’s okay. Ernie? Bert? I’ll bet even though they’re puppets that they have the same thought as me. I hope Daryl Hall and John Oates are gay – Don’t Get Me Started!

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True I Haven’t Used One In Years But I’ll Miss The Polaroid Camera – Don’t Get Me Started!

Just from the title alone I get it. I get why Polaroid stopped making their cameras last year and will quit making the film for those cameras this year as soon as they make enough film to last everyone who has a camera and wants to use it into 2009. But it’s more than the camera itself, it’s about nostalgia and like it or not, when you’re in your forties you tend to start looking back on things in your life that they no longer make with a sort of “Windsong” – you know, the fragrance that supposedly “stays on his mind.” True I haven’t used one in years but I’ll miss the Polaroid camera – Don’t Get Me Started!

I can remember one of my parents’ first Polaroid cameras, it was an SX-70 and it was sheer 70’s sensational. It had fake leather looking panels and the whole camera could fold flat and then with the touch of just one button, “WHAMMO!” it popped up into a camera that with the click of one button shot out a photo that would develop over the next few minutes. It was better than sex for a ten year old who desperately wanted to be the center of everyone’s attention. And now, still thinking about it, if I could get my hands on one of those cameras (we know I could get the film through 2009) maybe it would be better than sex even now. We just hadn’t ever seen anything like it before and I remember the fake leather shoulder bag that used as a carrying case for it just pushed me right over the edge. (Plus it gave a young gay boy an excuse to wear a “bag” on vacation)

My family has been obsessed with photos for long before I came into existence. My mother has boxes and boxes of family photos. There are some of the relatives from Russia and some from America and in both cases we have no idea who most of these people are any more. I love when one of my aunts will come over and they’ll go through the boxes. The conversation always turns to, “No, I think that was Ida Sussin not Rita the Dyke. Whose bar mitzvah was that anyway and why was she wearing that dress?” I howl. There are several relatives that I only know from these pictures (and the ones that fall into this category aren’t all dead either). In fact, I think if I ran into some of these people today unless they were in sepia tone I wouldn’t recognize them at all.

My mother’s father lived to document his family in film and had one of the very first Polaroid cameras in the world. Although he died a few months after my birth it is with great affection and a smile in her tear filled eyes that she would tell us about her father taking pictures and then smearing the developer wand over the Polaroid to make what are now housed in those horribly non-acid free pages of a bound large green flowers on the fabric puffy binding with the gold writing that says “photo album” on the cover. They have those clear pages that would lift up to reveal the sticky page underneath. The photos are cut up to fit on the page, there are some missing and some that slide out when you pick the album up where the stickiness no longer sticks. Many of the photos are indeed a product created by the Polaroid Company.

So how can I not miss the Polaroid camera as it takes its final, “Shhzzt” (the sound I remember so well from when the photos would spit out the front)? Those sounds are all electronic now, something you can download to be the sound of when you take a picture on your cell phone. I will tell you, it’s not the same. It’s not the same as waiting with wild anticipation to see the image as it magically came into existence (only to find that your mother had chopped off everyone’s heads again). It’s not the same as having something to shake (which you thought made it develop faster when we now know that it didn’t and probably only annoyed the shit out of the inventor of the film and the film itself that suffered from shaken Polaroid syndrome). It’s not the same because you don’t have a solid photo in your hand with a white border just meant for you to write something silly on it with a Sharpie pen for when you gave it to your friend. So true I haven’t used one in years but I’ll miss the Polaroid camera – Don’t Get Me Started!

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If You’re Me, Organic Food Is NOT Healthy For You – Don’t Get Me Started!

I’ve always had the suspicion that the food you get at what they used to call back in the day Health Food stores is anything but healthy for you. If you look at the people who work there and presumably eat there you can see that their cheeks are sunken in, their eyes look like hollow holes that used to hold their soul and a love of pastrami sandwiches but they’re basically sallow and can barely get the energy to move at a pace that is roughly the timing you’d get if you were jogging underwater. (Notice most of what you see at these stores do not come in heavy containers – not just because they’re bad for the environment but also because the clerks at the store have no energy from eating their healthy food that they can’t lift the “big items” to a top shelf.) Well, recently I’ve gotten hooked on a new grocery store that specializes in organic food and what I’ve discovered is that if you’re me, organic food is not healthy for you – Don’t Get Me Started!

At first I was put off by the whole concept of this grocery store. They’re called, Fresh & Easy. They have aisle after aisle of products mainly made by them (or by what I can only assume are the organic anemic elves chained in the back of the store) and mostly everything is organic. There are some name brand items but by in large they are all Fresh & Easy made, Fresh & Easy brand and the first time I walked into the store I made one big loop of the store and walked right out. I couldn’t quite get my head around this store and why there was nothing there that looked familiar. The packaging didn’t have fabulous pictures of what the item “could” look like if you made it right. They all had this clear packaging where you had to look at the food as it was and then sort of figure out what it might look like once you try to cook it. Sure it saves the disappointment you feel for the fact that what you cook at home never looks like the glossy picture on the box but I need marketing and packaging so this was very scary to me.

The other scary part of this store is a deal breaker for me because some things that you learn in your childhood stay with you for life. From the time I was old enough to ride my bike to the store to pick up items at the store for my mother she would always say the same thing to me just before I departed. It wasn’t the typical, “Take care” or “Be safe” or even “Look both ways” no, it was always, “And get a good date!” For those of you who are not Jews and do not understand this, what this refers to is the date that is on perishable items. So if you find a carton of milk that has a date for this week, pull all of them out because no doubt behind all the milk dated for this week is the golden ring, the one that is dated two weeks out. Now two weeks out, THAT’S a good date. Well, in the Fresh & Easy stores, because their stuff isn’t made with a lot of preservatives, there are no good dates. The “best” date you’ll find is four days from now and this is where the whole organic food is not healthy for me.

What I find is that all of the food is delicious but I sit around thinking about only one thing when I’m not eating. All of those items I’ve purchased sitting in my refrigerator that are going bad as we speak. I go through a tally of all the items in there and their dates and then I sit and think, “Oh my God, what kind of a Jew am I? I can’t eat out of date food. I can’t throw it out.” And that’s when the eating begins. Because the trick is that if you feel the way I listed above then you would see that you only have one option and that is to eat everything before it goes bad. So now, the organic food has given you high anxiety because it’s going bad, additional stress and tension over it and once you eat the entire contents of everything you’ve eaten out of the refrigerator you have heart burn. It’s basically a grand slam of being uncomfortable, fat and yet at the same time quite healthy because after all, it’s all organic!

Look, I don’t know what the real answer is to all of this but I know that I’ve fallen into a cycle that will not soon be broken. It’s sort of like when it’s a Sunday and you decide that you’re going to start working out and eating better on Monday. In order to get to Monday and the healthy you you’ve always wanted to be, you have to eat everything “bad” in the house in order to “get rid of it” and begin your healthy life. But meanwhile you’re so bloated on Monday from having eaten everything chocolate or over four hundred calories per serving on Sunday that you wake up in a sugar coma on Monday and there’s no possible way you’re going to be able to drag your fat ass to the gym. What’s more, Tuesday seems like a bad day to start and by Wednesday you’re in a grocery store buying your salmon and fresh spinach when the person in front of you takes a little too long and the next thing you know, going down that conveyer belt is the salmon, spinach and three Snickers bars for $.99. It’s just all so exhausting and yet, I know that I’m doing better for myself because the food is organic. Or am I? If you’re me, organic food is not healthy for you – Don’t Get Me Started!

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That’s right Dann they’re a-comin’ for ye! I can only speak for myself but if it were me I would have found a way to make it to at least one of those interviews and the one that I would pick? Ann-Margret of course is the only choice. While I do so adore the Weaver, nothing compares to that red headed bundle of dynamite that is Ann-Margret. I mean, come on – who else is Ann-Margret? No one, that’s who. There has never been anyone like her nor will there ever be anyone like her. It’s not that she’s the best singer or the best dancer or the best actress in the world it’s that she is Ann-Freaking-Margaret folks! From her teen days to today she is a performer that never disappoints. As I’m writing this I’m hearing her famous “Ha! Ha!’s” from her many fabulous numbers in Viva Las Vegas (yes, I’m a bit partial to that one because of living in Vegas and come on, how could you not love Ann-Margret and Elvis together in the same movie? If you don’t, “the gentleman’s all wet” – if you don’t know what that quote is your membership is in danger too). The fact that Dann passed makes me want to sing to him, “There are men, with childhood behind them…”

Dann (as a gay man) may have many things behind him at any given time but the one thing that won’t be behind him anytime soon is the no show for the show biz legend interview. Some things are just unforgivable. I would tear my clothes (an ancient showing of someone being “dead to you” in the Jewish faith) if it weren’t that Dann is such a good writer and writes such snappy emails.

So Dann, when the gay membership ask for the tribunal to take place (similar to the kind you used to see on the television show Bewitched) I’ll be there to show my support but unfortunately I don’t think with my current standing that my testimony would help you all that much. (That’s one gay’s way of telling another gay, “You’re on your own, sister!”) And should you redeem yourself and be able to land a postponement on these interviews you’ll be as Liza sang about, “Top of the heap” (and we all know it’s better to be on the top of the heap than at the bottom, because the bottom of the heap is very crowded and doesn’t afford the best views). But until that time comes, my head will rest just a little better on my Wicked (the Broadway musical pillow case (No I don’t really have one, how gay do you think I am, people?) knowing that I’m not the only gay having his gay card revoked! – Don’t Get Me Started!

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No, You Haven’t Gotten Any Thinner, The Elastic In Your Pants Is Just Worn Out – Don’t Get Me Started!

Every year I pull out the “winter” clothes that have been packed away. Living in Las Vegas, for the most part the change is from short sleeved t-shirts to long sleeved t-shirts but nonetheless there is a change of seasons of a sort that requires a change in clothing. At the end of each “clothing season” I take Goodwill those items that either I feel have made it enough seasons in my life, are too small (never mind the whole pants not fitting, have you ever put on a dress shirt to find that the collar couldn’t close if it’s life depended upon it? I have and that gets the shirt an immediate trip into the “Going To Goodwill” pile) or were bought and never worn. The clothes “worth saving” get put away for the next season. Well, such was a pair of “good old faithful” sweatpants. As I took them out of what had been their Rubbermaid home for the past several months they had that familiar plasticy kind of smell but I didn’t care. I put them on and began about my activities. These pants were hand me downs from my guy who is a good seven inches taller than me so I have to roll them up in the waist to begin with as they’re so long for me but what I soon discovered was that there was no amount of “rolling” that was going to help these pants in their current state. And while I would like to kid myself (and normally do a great job of lying to myself when needed for self-preservation or just to get through another day) my mind told me the truth this time, “No, you haven’t gotten any thinner, the elastic in your pants is just worn out.” – Don’t Get Me Started!

Yes, as I walked out of my bedroom my pants were not as successful. Like those moments I’ve seen on those “Funniest Video” shows about old men whose pants fall down as they dance at their daughter’s wedding or whatever here I was with no pants about my waist or nether regions. But I never thought I would be one of these people. The only saving grace was that it happened in my own home. There I was, almost out of my bedroom with a pair of sweatpants at my ankles. Although I’ve never heard of such a thing, I do believe one of my cats laughed about this time.

I began to think about all of the clothes I’ve hung onto and the show What Not To Wear on TLC (which I watch religiously each week). I’ve heard Stacey London and Clinton Kelly chastise women for keeping clothes from their high school days or that they considered too “comfortable” to throw away. I would never fit into clothes from my high school days so that will never be the problem here. But what I did next almost qualifies me as a candidate for the show. I picked the pants up, folded over the waistband one more time and kept walking. This was two days ago and I’m still walking around wearing them (in the house only) and quite frequently I find myself discovering that “baby don’t got back” well, enough to keep his pants up. I don’t know how these kids who wear their pants below their ass keep them up at all. Maybe it’s an age thing.

In an odd way it feels great to have these pants slipping from my waist because if I try hard enough I can almost convince myself that the reason they’re falling off is due to my imaginary weight loss. I can hear myself saying, “Wow, these pants used to be tight and now look at them, they’re falling right off.” You know, like some annoying informercial.

I don’t think the pants will make it through another season, in fact I don’t think they’ll make it through the next week but for a moment it was good to find a reason to laugh at myself as I stood there with my pants down about my ankles. It was good to know that I’ve worn something until it’s last bit of worth could be gotten from it and moreover than either of those two things for that brief shining moment known as “Scottnotalot” I was so thin my pants fell off even when reality told me, “No, you haven’t gotten any thinner, the elastic in your pants is just worn out.” – Don’t Get Me Started!

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The Internet Makes For Strange Readfellows – Don’t Get Me Started!

I began blogging in earnest when I began this website in August of 2006. At first it seemed like quite a solitary endeavor. (And sometimes to this very day it feels a bit the same way.) You see, I have read other people’s blogs, websites, hubs (from www.hubpages.com) I’ve read any number of celebrity as well as “every day folk” blogs and what I discovered was that they fall into one of three categories. They’re either someone educating you on how to do something, someone selling you something or my category – blogs that give personal opinion. Of the three different types of blogs I’m sorry to say for my sake that mine is the least profitable. You see everyone tells you that in order to be noticed in the worldwide Internet blogosphere you have to stand out or at the very least, give your blogs titles that will get caught in search engines, you know like “How to lose ten pounds in ten minutes” – once again, my titles always just reflect my current mood, frustration or a play on words so my “traffic” is not exactly the LA freeway of the Internet. Through the course of the last couple of years of blogging I have “met” a lot of people online. Some who wanted to publicize their site on my site, or their product, some who want to let me know how wrong I am about my opinions and lifestyle and some just looking for friends it seems. And a recent event got me thinking about a phrase and my own play on its words, the Internet makes for strange readfellows – Don’t Get Me Started!

I’ll write about the people who have gotten in touch with me to promote themselves another time or as they sing in Evita, “they’re hoping their lover will help them or keep them, support them, promote them, don’t blame them, you’re the same.” What amazed me were the people who wrote (and write) just for the sake of telling me that I made them laugh or that I moved them or that they disagreed with me. These are the “real” people who really don’t want anything from you, other than to be heard. And sometimes, just sometimes these people find a way into my mind and heart on a more regular basis. Such is the case with a woman who wrote to me from Florida. She’s very sweet and seemingly not my demographic at all. By her own admission she is an older woman who just enjoyed my writing. She also took it upon herself to assist me in what at one point was my goal to get Rosie O’Donnell to notice me. She wrote to Rosie on a regular basis on my behalf and even became disenchanted when Rosie (nor anyone of her staff) ever got in touch with her or me. She is a dear woman named Carol and I’m greatly thankful for her continued loyalty in her reading and honest criticism. She found me through I believe it’s her sister or cousin on hubpages.com, another woman who calls me her “Jewish doctor” because her husband found her laughing every morning while reading my blogs and therefore she decided that laughter is the best medicine and I believe he coined the phrase that I was her Jewish doctor giving her a dose of daily medicine. How dear these people are to read and continue to let me know they’re reading and enjoying the site.

Some write for advice. I had a woman write to me from Oklahoma named Liz. She was going through a divorce at the time that was pretty ugly and had decided that she really needed to find a “gay of her own” so that she would have a date for company functions and to give her sage advice. And while I gave her advice (not sure it helped or not) long distance I’m happy to say that a couple years later she is dating again and in fact has found a gay of her own! Then there was a young man who had just entered college and was dealing with being gay and one of his first crushes on a boy from back home. I called him “Billy” and you can read our correspondence here (http://hubpages.com/hub/Dear-SomeLikeItScott---Advice-For-Boys-And-Those-Who-Love-Them) I haven’t heard from Billy in a long while but I do hope that he’s finding love and laughter.

There’s one person I’ve met that I feel needs more than an “honorable mention” here. His name is Arrigo and he is from Australia. I’ve never been to Australia and truth be told probably wouldn’t even be able to point to it on a map. (I’ve always said I never could get the blue “piece of pie” in Trivial Pursuit due to my lack of knowledge of geography and that’s the honest truth) Arrigo is a gay man living with his partner and their dogs. He’s an extremely knowledgeable man who has a love of the theatre arts like myself while at the same time helping people through his psychology degree and soon to be Masters degree. I think he first saw my video blogs on YouTube and through it we began a correspondence that can best be described similar to when I was a kid and the teacher gave us all pen pals. That’s what we consider one another, pen pals. I know, how disappointing that there’s no sex or anything lurid about it like the “hook-ups” you hear about from the Internet. Although I must admit that there are times when I look to him for free advice and call him my “Australian Therapist.” That’s as intimate as things get. Along with his many endeavors from giving therapy to therapists, continuing his education, starting soon a practice all his own he finds that he also needs the additional creative outlet of creating art. He and a gal pal of his have decided to try and create 100 dolls in a year. (Don’t think Marie Osmond dolls, think more artsy stuff) Ever since I began my correspondence with him and learned of his doll creations I asked him time and time again if he had made a voodoo doll of me. Well, imagine my surprise last week when I received an email from him telling me that in fact he had finally gotten around to creating that voodoo doll of me. You can see it here at http://myartself.com/ and look at the November 17, 2008 entry. (I’ve always wanted to see myself in recycled materials and papier-mache!) I’m thankful for his friendship and his pen palness. And even if we never meet face to face (I like to think of us like Anthony Hopkins and Anne Bancroft in 84 Charing Cross Road) I know that I have his support and I hope he knows that he has mine.

So while I know that people use the Internet to find all sorts of people and although Thanksgiving was last week, I just want to take this time to thank those people who read my site and/or write to me. I’m thankful to have all of them, especially my pen pal, Arrigo. And I can’t help but sit back and smile while I think the Internet makes for strange readfellows – Don’t Get Me Started!

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Going Out To Dinner For The Holidays Is Not As Bad As You Think – Don’t Get Me Started!

Long have holidays played a strong role in my family’s life. I’m sure that’s true for almost everyone. Whether they be good or bad memories they seem to be an integral makeup of who we are and how we handle ourselves in what should be the happiest but are oft times the most stressful days for each of us each year. So when my Mother informed me that we were going to a restaurant for Thanksgiving dinner this year I raised one eyebrow pursed my lips and let my mind fill with cynical thoughts. Little did I know that going out to dinner for the holidays is not as bad as you think – Don’t Get Me Started!

My parents had traveled to my brother’s the previous week and they had a Thanksgiving dinner there with his family, including his in-laws. They did the turkey and all that came with it. I unfortunately could not join them for the event. It’s not new to my family to change the date of a holiday to suit our own needs due to scheduling around work or someone being in town. I’ll never forget the fight I had with my Mother one year trying to convince her that while she could change some holidays, changing Passover was not an option. So with my guy out of town and just my parents and myself here I was not surprised to get the call from my Mother telling me that what she was making was reservations for Thanksgiving dinner.

Although we go to this restaurant often and my parents are somewhat “regulars” it is a restaurant in one of the local casinos here. So not exactly your local Mom and Pop restaurant where you’ve been eating for years and years – do those exist anymore? I hope so. (And for those who are wondering, yes – it’s the same restaurant I chronicled in my Vblog about “Dinner with the folks” – you can watch it here http://hubpages.com/hub/Forty-Something-Gay---Dinner-With-The-Folks) And while our “usual” waiter was not on that day we had one who was equally, shall we say, “interesting?” Our waiter was a man who no doubt has been a waiter for at least thirty years. His body was bent over in what seemed liked a constant partial bow. My parents had been waited on by him before and when my Mother greeted him with a friendly “Hello, how are you?” He answered with a not so surprising, “Well, I’ve been through quite a few illnesses as of late but now I’m back to my regular 80%.” Gee that’s a great start to an early evening meal (our reservation was for 4pm) and while you may think this was due to Thanksgiving, let me assure you that my parents eat early all the time so that they may maintain the stereotype of older Jews and early bird specials. Comics everywhere are grateful.

The meal was a five course affair and provided all the elements of Thanksgiving that you would expect from a culinary perspective. As we ate my Mother regaled me with a blow-by-blow of every moment of the previous weekend with my brother and his family. I would look occasionally to my Father to get confirmation on some of what seemed as embellishments to the actual happenings. Or as my Father’s Mother used to call it, “pushing them in” when you “added” something that didn’t really happen to a story you were telling. The meal was yummy and we all had a good time.

What I discovered was that some people don’t want to be Martha Stewart or some who allow all the cooking, cleaning and relatives to make them completely crazy (yes, I have friends who had this experience) end up hating the holidays. Holidays are all the clichés you’ve ever heard. They aren’t where they happen, they aren’t what you eat, they’re who you’re with and who you are. So if someone says to you that you’re going out to eat for the next holiday, take a moment to go ahead and raise your eyebrow but then let it go and as the waiters always says to you when they deliver your food, “enjoy.” Going out to dinner for the holidays is not as bad as you think – Don’t Get Me Started!

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