Keep Your Resolutions To Yourself So That When You Blow It We Donít Both Have To Be Embarrassed!
With the invention of Facebook and other
social media, it seems as though everyone thinks we want to know everything that is going on in their so-called life (that
they’re creating for public consumption). From what people are eating, to their philosophy on everything from parenthood
to wearing hoods, people want to be heard, seen and let’s face it, validated. Well, this guy doesn’t have a stamp
to validate your parking or your life. So please keep your resolutions to yourself so that when you blow it we don’t
both have to be embarrassed! – Don’t Get Me Started!
As you can tell, I’m not a resolution maker. I’ve disappointed myself time and time again
telling myself I’m only going to eat one cookie instead of the whole box of Girl Scout Thin Mints. How the hell am I
supposed to resolve to do something important and keep to it? The difference is that I’m not posting a photo with me
eating one cookie telling you I’m only eating one and how good it feels. I’m quietly shoving cookie after cookie
in my gullet, finally resorting to picking the crumbs off of my sweats covered belly and feeling awful about myself right
where I should, in my own private life. May I suggest you do the same?
Look, I get that we could all use some support but that’s what real friends are
for, to share brunch and whatever bunch of crazy you’re currently serving up. Or via a little thing Mr. Alexander Graham
Bell created, called the phone (and whoever invented texting for when you don’t really want to talk but want to lend
your semi-support). It doesn’t need to be in a public forum with your not so closest 500 or more “friends.”
If you need that kind of support go find some group therapy. As someone who spent 20 minutes in group therapy, I can tell
you this is the exact place for it. You meet people who listen to you ramble on about how your life is beyond crazy and then
when they talk, they make you feel more sane than anyone else in the room. It’s fabulous and I’m sure many a group
are sharing resolutions as we speak. Look into it.
Truly, I want you to be successful in all you want for yourself. (Like you’re mother always told
you that she only wants you to be happy but can’t help but tell you every time she talks to you that you have no idea
how to run your life but she knows what would make you happy.) But allow me to be Mr. Reality for a moment. Before you post
that you’ve decided to only eat organic foods and make your own soap on Facebook, stop yourself for your sake (and mine).
At some point you’re going to find yourself in need of some good old fashioned crappy food and you will find yourself
smuggling home Irish Spring because the neighbor you never talk to you friended at one point and you just know even though
you don’t speak that she’ll have “one up on you” by knowing you caved and bought soap. Some things
are meant to be kept to yourself and resolutions are one of them. Keep your resolutions to yourself so that when you blow
it we don’t both have to be embarrassed! – Don’t Get Me Started!
Sharing Isn’t Always Caring
– Don’t Get Me Started!
I get it, thanks to Facebook and Wordpress, everyone is a writer without the rejection notice that no one
wants to publish your work. I’ve been there, I am there, welcome to my world. But a recent scroll on my phone through
friends (and let’s face it, mostly acquaintances I haven’t seen since I was ten) on my Facebook app made me start
to think, sharing isn’t always caring – Don’t Get Me Started!
Everyone writes for a reason. Some of us write to get noticed,
to feel creative and most of us think we have one good book in us. Like Jews making fun of Jews, we can because we are of
it, what we joke about it. It helps us even the playing field to laugh at life’s injustices or even for some of us,
lets the world know that while you’re worrying about what Jesus would do, we’re worrying our mothers won’t
approve of anything we do. The most invaluable lesson my parents ever taught me was to laugh at myself.
So as a blogger I feel I have the
right to say that while you’re writing on Facebook about a life you’re wishing you’re leading, your life
is waiting for you to get off Facebook and actually have that life. I started life as an actor (and I’ll die as an unemployed
one like many others) so I know about making up a life. Authors give actors a chance to embody flawed to fabulous characters
and in a way, maybe that’s what many do on Facebook. The difference is that for actors, there’s an audience and
then there’s home. Facebook has blurred the lines. Authors are actors and audiences are in their homes reading the performance.
“I had the best turkey sandwich today.” “I’ve taken a good hard look at myself and have decided there
is someone there I’d like to be friends with so tomorrow I will be a better friend to myself.” (If I was crafting
this it would read, “I had a good hard look at myself and have determined I’m hard to look at!”) ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
I like seeing
pictures of friend’s babies. I like seeing a post that makes me smile or stop to think. But I have to ask you, for those
of you with the screwed up lives that think you’re suddenly Oprah with your light bulb moment, giving us advice and
sharing your “journey” just stop for a moment before you hit “send” for all of our sakes.
The life you’re creating on
Facebook, the one you want us so badly to see as yours, could be yours if you only took the energy to create that instead
of “meaningful” posts about it. I get it, maybe you’re visualizing it into reality but maybe just maybe
what you’re really doing is creating a character for a stage that doesn’t exist (and for good reason).
I wrote and posted a lot of days
as a creative outlet but I never felt I was imparting wisdom as much as I thought I was providing a new frame to see an old
picture in. I don’t think I got it right (Jewish guilt is the gift that lets you know you’re always getting it
wrong) and I don’t want to convince you I’m having a fabulous time. I want to have a fabulous time. I have
been blessed with good friends who pick up their phone when I call, to parents who never let me go a day without knowing I
was loved and a man that still makes my heart race faster at the sound of his voice after lo these many years (shockingly
it will be 25 years this year). I don’t need to convince you how to live your life or that I know how to live mine.
My wish for all of us is that we just go out and start living, posting a little less and understand that sharing isn’t
If This Is The Best I Can Do With Cats, Thank God We Never Had Children!
If This Is The Best I Can Do With Cats, Thank God We Never Had
Children! – Don’t Get Me Started!
first one to admit that when we took in two stray cats almost ten years ago now, I had no idea what I was doing but through
the years I’ve prided myself on knowing at least what my cats are all about and what’s best for them. That was
until recent events when I discovered that if this is the best I can do with cats, thank God we never had children! –
Don’t Get Me Started!
guess I need to explain that we only had one pet when I was growing up, a small dog that acted more like a human than a dog.
He sat at the table, took his place on his side of the monopoly board when we played, you get the idea. My spouse however
is like Dr. Freaking Doolittle and had several pets growing up. So while I’ll admit I didn’t bring a lot of practical
experience to the table, I’ve got common sense for days and an ability to look things up online so fast that Mr. Google
no doubt envies me.
Through the years, my spouse
and I have fallen into our roles when it comes to the cats. While he does all the brushing and feeding, I’m responsible
for mani/pedis and cleaning the cat litter box. Now I guess I should tell you that our cats are more than a little spoiled.
At the risk of being the greatest gay cliché in the world, we named them after musical theatre characters and the minute
that we took them in they were equipped not only with fabulous collars but two (what we considered) cat essentials. The electric
water fountain and the Litter Maid cat litter box that automatically scoops everything into a neat container for you.
While the fountain has had to be
replaced several times through the years, the Litter Maid box has remained doing its job since we got it…until recently.
(And yes, I’m using the name of Litter Maid in hopes that they’ll want to put us in a commercial and/or send us
free product– come on Litter Maid, if you’re not appealing to the gays with your product, someone in marketing
needs to be fired!) Much to my chagrin, the Litter Maid has taken over one of our walk-in closets in the bedroom due to the
cat litter dust (which I’m sure is fatal), it’s become more of a storage closet and my clothes must reside in
the guest bedroom.
I walked in to find the Litter Maid cord caught in the raking mechanism that scoops the poop, I did my best to fix it. I had
no idea it was supposed to be retracting until it didn’t and then the next time it went on, I watched the rake snap
the cord and I just knew it was all over. While I found sites that show you how to fix it, I am man enough to admit that I’m
not a handy man. (While my brother made a Mazda engine model that ran when we were kids, I couldn’t get a Snap-tite
model together to save my life.)
At first I thought, “Hey, with this economy they can just tough it out like less fortunate cats.”
I figured I would just scoop like the rest of the world and it would all be fine. Now, while our larger male cat seems to
have poop that is manageable in the smell department, his little sister has crap that is absolutely toxic. That said I figured
that they would cover their poop like any other cat so the smell wouldn’t be that bad. But then I smelled it. I didn’t
need to be a Hardy Boy to realize that Elphaba had taken a crap and thanks to the broken cat litter box, I decided to investigate.
That’s when I saw it, turds almost as big as she was just laying there on the top of the cat litter. And then it dawned
on me, they’ve never had to cover their crap in their lives and thanks to my “catenting” (“cat”
and “parenting” put together) they were not about to start now.
I thought about “teaching” her how to cover her crap
but then I realized just how insane that was (he said chuckling to himself realizing that this whole thing is insane) and
so I went to the store and bought the only Litter Maid box I could find in four stores. It’s smaller than the other
one and although they seem more interested in the box it came in, I have high hopes that there’ll be crap in the bucket
by tomorrow morning and the smell won’t be horrible. I’m a big believer in knowing who you are and this was just
another lesson to me that if this is the best I can do with cats; thank God we never had children! – Don’t Get
Note: I wrote this in stages, much like the one my friend performed her daily life on. And now I see it in “acts”
– acts of kindness, friendship and theatrical acts.
I’m not quite sure why but my family has
always been excellent hospital sitters. While some may get squeamish, I go to a place of complete calm even in the most dire
of hospital situations. I just know what to do at a hospital, what nurses to cajole to get what I want/need and I guess it’s
when my family or friends are at their most vulnerable in a hospital that I can feel my caretaker instincts take over, this
is me at my truest self. I guess this is the point where I tell you that I’ve never had to be hospitalized for any reason.
No broken bones, no high fevers, no anything that required me to be in a hospital. I don’t know how I’ll be (as
I’m sure at some point I’ll need to be hospitalized) but until that time comes, a recent turn of events has left
me feeling more paralyzed than if I were laying in a hospital bed myself.
my best friend of over 30 years went through hell when her husband was dying of cancer. She didn’t even know I was in
the same state when I walked into the ICU on what would become her husband’s last day of life. I was there for her,
her children (lucky that work had taken me to her state and that I could actually work from there on and off as needed to
be with her for the week or so after he died). I remember asking her what she thought when she saw me walk into the ICU and
she said, “I just knew it was time, you were here.”
have been blessed to have strong women in my life, strong women who taught me that I could be gay and still be a man. They
taught me about my own worth when I couldn’t see any in myself. No one taught me these lessons more than Julia whom
I met one summer as an assistant choreographer. We were both in our thirties. She was this gorgeous model-type, fabulous dancer
but even more fabulous in spirit. We became fast friends and I also became close with her husband and their two girls. This
family transformed me. I remember the girls being pre-teens, us sitting down to dinner discussing anything and everything.
They were the first children that I had known who knew I was gay at such a young age and due to the amazing home they lived
in, they not only embraced it but they wanted me to play Mystery Date with them! I had never been around anything like them.
The entire family is golden to me. My dear Julia became a Licensed Clinical Social Worker and in a few years she was running
several hospitals’ programs. No surprise (she was always an overachiever from the moment I met her) even though she
loved to make everyone think she was the loafer in the crowd (anything but, she was the Podesua pump, that pumped you up,
never a loafer, too flat!).
We never lived in the same state
but due to a job I had for years I was there all the time, spending weekends at their house, going to family events, even
aholiday party once where when being introduced to the hostess (who had no idea I was coming with the
family) asked, “And you are?” And without a moment’s hesitation I said, “Nanny Scott, I’ve raised
the girls since they were small.” It stuck. I’ve been known as Nanny Scott to them ever since.
When he told me of her original diagnosis I remember thinking it wasn’t good but okay,
we can get through it. No problem. I fought my gut instincts, this would all be okay I said to myself. And when a few weeks
later I was actually able to talk with her on the phone (he allowed us ten minutes to chat, strictly prohibited by medical
professionals) she greeted me as always with her signature; “Hi darlin’” and she sounded like she always
sounded so I felt better and told my gut to, “cool it.” For the life of me I can’t remember what we talked
about. I know we laughed.
Some emails back and forth with her
husband, Tom and then the news, it wasn’t good, worse than we had thought, worse than even the doctors had known. When
he called to bring me up to date on the latest news he said, “It’s not good news, but she’s not dead either,
she’s sitting here talking to me so we’ll move forward.” He knew I would be there in a second, he told me
not to come. She couldn’t see anyone, talk to anyone so he told me to wait and then, when she was “on her feet”
I would come and spend a weekend at the house. I love this man, I love his wife, I love their children. I knew he was right
and yet here I was, two hundred fifty miles away with no uncomfortable hospital chair to doze in by her bed as I so desperately
wanted to with every fiber of my being. I’ve never felt so helpless. I’ve never felt so angry. I’ve never
felt so selfish. And as I waited, checking my phone several times a day for any type of word I couldn’t help but think,
“To anyone but not MY Julia.”
Update – The call came, she made it through the
surgery and now the real process begins. Whatever it is, there is still anger and helplessness inside me but there’s
also hopefulness. Not so strange, this was a lesson this family taught me years ago and continues to teach me.
Due to the nature of the beast, phone calls were not an option. I sent cards. We knew one another
before computers were commonplace and I remember writing her letters. Here I was again, sending letters and cards. I started
sending musical cards. I guess somewhere in my head I thought that it would make her smile to open a card and hear music.
I wrote about everything but the disease she was battling. I restrained myself from writing what I really wanted to write
to her. I wanted her to guide me through this as she had done with so many difficult situations in my life. I wanted her to
tell me she was feeling better. I wanted to call her everyday but I didn’t, I knew Tom had enough on his plate. And
I knew he knew what was best and would call me when there was an update or something I could do.
I’m a selfish person. I wanted her to make me feel better when she was the one going through
all of this crap. I sent her a t-shirt for her birthday from a store we loved. It was selfish, I wanted her to see it and
think of me, the way that I thought of her every day. I kept wondering if the call would come with good news that she was
ready for me to come for a weekend and I shoved to the back of my skull any thought of bad news coming in.
I knew she was scheduled to go into the hospital for some tests so when the phone rang and I
saw that it was Tom I allowed myself for a brief second to think that some miracle had happened in the hospital and she was
now going to be able to speak to me. That moment didn’t last long, with his first word I heard something in his voice
that made me feel like grabbing a piece of furniture to brace myself. “She coded” he said, “we were with
her and then it just happened, she coded and then all hell broke loose and they have her in ICU now.” I don’t
remember the rest of the conversation. I just kept lying to myself that this was something she could survive as I raced to
the computer searching for any site by anyone who would tell me that she could survive this episode.
I watched the clock, I paced, I kept looking at my phone. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore,
I texted Tom and when my phone rang I still held out hope that it was bad, a coma maybe but survivable. That wasn’t
the news I got and as he told me she was gone I started to cry but somewhere in my head I heard Julia, always the practical
one, telling me Tom needed me now, I stopped crying, I listened mostly because I didn’t know what to say. I asked about
the girls, how they were doing, (at least I think I did) and when I hung up the phone I just sat by myself and cried for my
loss, Tom’s, the girls and the thought of never hearing, “Hi darlin’” on the other end of the phone
I pulled out photo albums looking for pictures of her.
I wanted to, needed to see her. I scoured the Internet in case there was a photo I didn’t know about (try Googling Julia
Child and see what you come up with, not my Julia). I checked her maiden name, I checked her married name and finally after
finding very little I realized that it didn’t matter what you found when you Googled her, she was more than what anyone
could write or a photo. She changed my life, the way any good friend does. My life changed the day I met her and it has changed
again now that I’ll never see her again. But I have Tom. I have the girls, I have the amazing man the eldest of the
girls married and I have more responsibilities. The eldest is pregnant with her first child, a boy. And as she wrote me, it’s
time for me to be Granny Scott! That would make Julia giggle. I’m glad I can still hear that sound in my head.
Every Time I Try To Stay Out Of Politics They Pull Me Back In!
Every Time I Try To Stay Out Of
Politics They Pull Me Back In! – Don’t Get Me Started!
Long have I tried to stay out of talking politics with anyone and for all the reasons that they say (plus a few of my own).
Just like no Jehovah’s Witness or Mormon is going to convert me at my door, I feel the same way about politics. And
if by chance you are someone susceptible to changing your mind about things because someone you’ve never met tells you
that you should then please stop reading this and start donating to the Church of Scott, we worship things like witty people
with great bodies and a really good bloody Mary (both the cocktail and the character from the musical, South Pacific) on Sundays
and we need your support to do both so give generously and we’ll make sure when you die something spectacular happens
to you! Every time I try to stay out of politics they pull me back in! – Don’t Get Me Started!
I know oh too well that I won’t change anyone’s mind when it comes to who they’re voting
for or who they think should be running the country. And I don’t want to be one of those people who quote polls and
surveys, giving a bunch of numbers in trillions to scare you. I just need to vent, thus the reason for this blog I’ve
been writing for years.
Here’s the thing. I don’t
understand women and contrary to the popular belief that all gay men want to be women (or talk like stereotypical black ones,
calling everyone, “Girrrrrrrrrrl”) I feel compelled to do my job as a gay man, to be a best pal to you gals. Here
are some facts that most everyone agrees on – you mature faster than men, you live longer and thus there are more of
you on the planet. Can one of you then explain to me why or how you can allow straight white men to continue to push you around
when it comes to your rights and pursuit of happiness? Why aren’t you already running the country? I don’t get
Perhaps you’re all just thinking too small. Instead
of thinking about how you’re going to get that business man at the end of the bar to buy you a drink or pay for your
hair extensions, you should be making him pay for the years he didn’t allow you to have the vote and most recently telling
you you’re not smart enough to make decisions about your own body and that if you’re really raped, your
body will automatically know what to do so you don’t have a baby.
They have used you for years, making you believe you weren’t thin or pretty enough when the fact
is that you’re smarter and should know better. What about this whole concept is so difficult for you to understand?
It’s time for you to all go Amazon on these scared, white straightee boys, become the power in this country and fix
things. Don’t worry ladies, us gays and every other minority that the white men who want to focus more on seeing Janet
Jackson’s tit for a split second on television than balancing the budget will help you. We’re not afraid of compromise
as much as the white men are because we’ve been compromised by them for so long we know their days need to be numbered.
You already outnumber them, all you gotta do is organize yourselves and if you can’t do it, you must know a gay who
can help you. Okay, okay, I’m ready to help, geez! Every time I try to stay out of politics they pull me back in! –
Don’t Get Me Started!
Through My Revo Sunglasses – Don’t Get Me Started!
I can’t remember exactly when I
bought them but I remember thinking it was a big deal. Long before the Sunglass Hut was on every corner, I ventured into one
sometime in the early 90’s was it? Who can remember, I just know it was a while ago and at the time I must have tried
on every pair in the store until I settled on my ultra-lightweight carbon framed, blue mirrored, most expensive pair of sunglasses
to date. They were $100 and I remember going back a few times for the person behind the counter to “soften” the
ear rests to fit exactly to my head. Recently I decided to dig them out and try them on again, looking back through my Revo
sunglasses – Don’t Get Me Started!
Although I’ve oft been called, “jaded beyond my years” (okay, was called this when I was
much younger) I like the fact that when I put my old Revo sunglasses on for a split second I wondered if I would see what
I saw so many years ago. Maybe I would be able to see better when driving (I’ve become a little near sighted in my old
age and wear glasses to drive at night) or maybe I would feel the way I felt about the world twenty years prior when I first
put them on. None of these things happened but I did wonder if it had happened, what it would be like and I liked that the
thought of the possibility entered my mind.
you think this some sort of waning for a time gone by fueled by mid-life crisis, I can assure you it wasn’t. It was
much more H.G. Wells Time Machine in feeling. Could I be the one person in the world with magical glasses that allowed me
to look at the past from my current state? To feel what I felt then and also feel what I feel now? Come on, you can’t
tell me that wouldn’t be really cool.
much like a pair of pants or t-shirt you’ve kept too long, the sunglasses (still pristine from being stored in their
case with the additional cleaning cloth I’d purchased at the urging of the salesgay behind the counter sometime in the
90’s) it wasn’t so much my head getting fatter that didn’t make them fit but it was that I wasn’t
that guy anymore and let’s face it, once I couldn’t magically look into the past I quickly lost interest. I wore
them for a few days and then I decided it was probably best to go back to my Tom Ford, $400 sunglasses. I remember buying
these too. Someone had given me a gift card for Barney’s for $500. I didn’t want to buy something that would go
out of style the next season or become too tight when my gym regimen lapsed so I bought the sunglasses the haughty woman behind
the counter told me looked good on me and then used the remainder of the gift card to buy something for my spouse.
I have to admit that it felt strange wearing the $400 Tom Ford sunglasses during the time I was unemployed.
Even now as I try to dig my way back it seems a bit extravagant but then again, I’m pretty extravagant, thinking I could
see into the past with Revos or see better into the future with Tom Fords. Sometimes I think it’s best if I just squint
so that I can remember what it feels like when there’s too much light and clarity for me to take.That’s
usually when I put my sunglasses back on and move on.
Who Makes Spam? And I Donít Mean The Stuff Made By Hormel!
Spam? And I Don’t Mean The Stuff Made By Hormel! – Don’t Get Me Started!
Now that I’ve been writing online
for as long as I have, I’ve encountered just about everything. There are the people who love me (sometimes a little
too much and it scares me), there are the people who hate me (okay, to be fair some just hate the “sin” that I’m
gay but there are still plenty of people who read my blogs and aren’t all that thrilled with me) but the most annoying
of them all are the people who post what we now all universally call, “Spam” on my posts. Who makes Spam? And
I don’t mean the stuff made by Hormel! – Don’t Get Me Started!
First let me
state that the fact that they decided to call people posting crap infected viruses on websites and everywhere else, “spam”
is no doubt a little offensive to the gang at Hormel (and my spouse who happens to love some Spam from time to time). No doubt
someone somewhere has done the research and earned their Master’s Degree pontificating about the origin of the naming
of this annoying crap online but I don’t have the time or inclination to go around looking for it. I’ll leave
that to the scholars. I, after all, am simply commenting of the annoyance of it all, not the origin of it.
While I have droned on and on in previous entries about the fact that we as a nation seem to care less and less about
our kids getting into good schools to get a good education and more worried about where the next audition is for America’s
Got Reality Television Fifteen Minutes Of Fame Top Model Idol so that we can pimp them out and use their money like Gary Coleman’s
parents, I wonder if the people who are posting the spam set out to be spammers? I can’t really see the counselor at
school saying, “You seem to have a great proclivity for writing nonsense and at the same time creating hyperlinks that
can do serious damage to all those stupid enough to click on them. Here are the top 500 companies that produce spam, put some
samples together and I’ll get you an interview immediately!”
to think that the people who create spam are sitting in some darkened dank warehouse typing away on old computers that have
the actual letters worn off the keyboards as they drink Red Bull and create the latest strain of infection that will no doubt
cause someone to spend hours and money to get their computers restored to their somewhat former state (let’s face it,
anyone who has been through this knows it’s like having your house robbed, things just never feel quite the same again,
they’re a bit tainted). But I think probably more likely than not, the spam kings are sitting in their houses in Malibu
(the houses that spam built) typing into their computers that create the spam (I’m assuming that at this point the need
to get Kathy Lee’s kids to type in the spam is no longer needed and that some geeky mastermind found a way to have computers
actually generate and post spam on their own at this point).
Seriously I don’t
understand the people who invented nor the people who continue to make spam. In a country where so many are unemployed it
would seem to me that people would have better things to do but apparently such is not the case. I post on a site called,
HubPages and only this morning I discovered there were about seven posts to my various 900 blog entries that went on and on
about Ann Curry leaving Today and then links to God only knows what that would cause God only knows what. Really people? Maybe
we can’t put everyone back to work; maybe we can’t all be superstars but let’s strive for one small thing,
shall we? Let’s strive to put the spammers out of business and back in the Hormel can, shall we?
Yes, Itís Summer And Hereís 5 Things You Should Know About What Youíre Wearing!
Yes, It’s Summer And Here’s 5 Things You Should Know
About What You’re Wearing! – Don’t Get Me Started!
I don’t know where you live but I live in Vegas and it hit 108 degrees
today, summer is here. Although here in Vegas we do get colder weather in the winter (though you wouldn’t know it from
the morons who think shorts and flip flops are a year round adventure here) now that summer has really hit I’m more
than ever grossed out by what I see out there. Yes, it’s summer and here’s 5 things you should know about what
you’re wearing – Don’t Get Me Started!
Those clothes you stored all winter when you were burrowing in, eating every
burrito you could get your hands on may not fit anymore. Do not try to wear them. This goes for you, girl I saw running on
the street the other day with jeans that were way too tight and as she ran and her crop top revealed not only her ample stomach
jutting out the front but her tramp stamp tattoo on her lower back I thought that she must have gotten really mad and pulled
“An Incredible Hulk” or just didn’t get that these clothes don’t fit her anymore and she shouldn’t
oughta be wearing them!
no such thing as a “summer scarf” – I saw this advertised on a website recently and wanted to choke the
person who came up with this idea. It’s 108 degrees here people. The only scarf you should be wearing is one that goes
over your head to protect you from the Sahara Desert which unbeknownst to any of us has been transplanted to Las Vegas. If
you wear a scarf around your neck when it’s this hot, you’re just seen as someone who is trying way too hard and
has been sold a bill of goods by the fashion industry. Save the scarves for winter.
Although the old Nair commercials from the 70’s would have you thinking
otherwise, not every girl needs to wear short shorts. This goes for you girls who are now painting them on making the world
your gynecologist and you girls with so much cottage cheese on your thighs. We don’t all have nice legs, those of us
who are nice know if we do or not and know what to hide and what to accentuate. Figure it out.
Now that summer is here, apparently the fashion gays have decided
that “boys” need to wear cut off jeans again. Oh but not jeans cutoffs like we all knew back in the day. No, now
it’s take those skinny jeans you’ve been wearing all winter, cut them off just at the knee or lower and you’re
supposedly in fashion. Or you’ve just created a look that makes you look like a Tim Burton character, congratulations!
Shorts are called, “shorts” for a reason. And I don’t care how straight “acting” or you actually
are boys, no one, hear my plea; no one can pull off Capri length pants without an ascot and a Charles Nelson Riley snarky
Finally, so you want to
have your “crusty dusties” out (your feet) with your sandals and flip flops. Do us all a favor (especially when
taking those naked bad boys into grocery stores and where people eat) go ahead and loofah those cracked heels that look like
the desert floor, use some moisturizer and whatever you do, for God Sakes people, trim those toenails. What are you growing
talons for your protection? I’m convinced that some people only wear flip flops because they can’t get their long
toenails into socks and /or regular shoes.
Less Neil Patrick Harris And
More Tonys Please! – Don’t Get Me Started!
I know, you’re all sitting
at home clutching your imaginary pearls at the thought of a gay man saying enough with Neil Patrick Harris on the Tonys (or
anywhere else for that matter) but I’ve always called ‘em like I see ‘em and the broadcast of the Tonys
this year has me saying, “Less Neil Patrick Harris and More Tonys Please!” – Don’t Get Me Started!
I’ll admit it, I’m the one gay man on the planet who does not think Neil Patrick Harris is the most talented
and adorable thing in the world. I always find him very “acty” and while I think he’s a talented singer,
I wouldn’t pay to see it. I get that he’s a gay among gays with his spouse and children, television success, coming
out, Broadway belt, etc. but for me he’s never been drool worthy. That said, I get that he’s liked and loved by
a lot of people and there was no way I was going to miss a broadcast of the Tonys just because he was hosting. Just one thing,
Mr. Harris, we all get that you’re gay, we get that there’s a stereotype about theatre being a breeding ground
for gays but enough already with these jokes, they’re tired and belong back in 1982.
From the start of the show I found myself wondering why there were so many ads for the Royal Caribbean cruise line.
This all revealed itself mid-way through the show when Harvey Firestein entered wearing a floatie and his pants rolled up
to take us via satellite to a production of Hairspray on a cruise ship somewhere out in the ocean. Yes, it’s true, we
all know that Broadway went corporate years ago but this was more than I could stomach. Never mind that the cruise ship performer
playing the lead role wasn’t even chubby or seemingly right for the role (perhaps because she doubles as “Roxie
Hart” when they do the show, Chicago on the other nights of the cruise) but can someone explain to me how this gets
put on the Tonys just because Actors’ Equity cut another deal to make money by putting union shows on boats?
Let me back up, the awards that were “given out earlier” and scrolled by as the show went to commercials
on the side of the television screen were awards like, Best Costume, Best Choreography, a special award for Bernadette Peters,
and many more that I would truly have liked to see the person who was awarded speak. But no, three Patrick Harris numbers,
an opening number from Book of Mormon (which was up and won the Tony last year) and a cruise ship performance were more important
than celebrating the Regional Theatre that won a Tony this year (for those who don’t know, Regional Theatres are the
birthing ground for many a Broadway show nowadays).
Look, try as you
might to get the Tonys to appeal to the masses, it appeals to the theatre going folk and not the people who are watching side
show performers put nails through their noses on America’s Got Talent on the other channel. Why not go ahead and just
give us theatre folk what we want? Three hours of showing scenes and numbers from Broadway, people gushing about their spouse,
same sex partner and agent and a taste of Broadway? Enough with the “clever” numbers for the host (Neil Patrick
or anyone else) give us the real performers, doing the real numbers and a montage of all the costumes nominated among other
things. The producers came close this year with dancers on stage doing character movement while clips were shown of the plays
that were up but even this wasn’t enough to bail them out from Broadway on the open seas and NPH upstaging the needed
speech about who and what the Tonys are all about, hanging upside down as Spiderman. Less Neil Patrick Harris and More Tonys
Please! – Don’t Get Me Started!
father has a large family. Every summer my brother and I would be shipped off to our grandparents in a small town in what
we called, “lower, slower Delaware.” My father’s family lived on a farm when he was small. My mother was
the city girl from Philadelphia. (My parents are the living, breathing version of the Green Acres couple.) As a child, spending
the summers in Delaware were never something I looked forward to and as I now realize what a complete pain in the ass I was
as a child I’m sure they weren’t too thrilled about getting me there every summer either. One of my father’s
uncles said to me during one of those summer visits, “Your brother is your father’s son and you are your mother’s.”
As a child I took that to mean that I wasn’t of them and my brother was that I didn’t belong in Delaware or part
of their family. As Sondheim wrote, “careful the things you say, children will listen.”
At the synagogue that my father’s
family attended, in the “front row” were my Dad’s parents, aunts and uncles when he was small however the
recent first death of his generation (my Dad’s first cousin who was six months younger than him, my father being the
oldest of his generation of his family) made us all too aware that our parents have now become the “front row.”
The generation of my father’s parents, aunts and uncles are almost all gone with the exception of a couple of aunts
in their nineties. My father’s generation is now the “front row” and the recent loss has stirred emotions
that were expected and at the same time stirred emotions I didn’t expect at all.
Not so oddly I suppose, I’ve
found myself revisiting my youth experiences in that small town during the summers of my childhood in my mind since the passing.
I remember the cousin who passed. He was a gentle giant to me as a child. He would imitate Donald Duck and was always the
one who would put his arm around me when I was crying or what have you and say, “Son, it’s going to be all right.”
The story he loved to tell about me was when my cousins and I were all young and he was driving us somewhere. He said, “Do
you kids want to drive over the water?” We all screamed that we indeed wanted to go over the water. He said, “Okay,
here we go, pick up your feet so that they don’t get wet.” I was the only one who picked his feet up as he drove
us over the bridge that indeed was “over” the water. My parents were fortunate to have seen him about a month
ago and he told my father to remind me of that story. He loved that story, I loved him, I still love him.
So as my cousins and I prepare ourselves
for the inevitability that our parents are now the “front row” I find myself reaching out to them all with my
heart. For those summers in our youth created a bond that time and space just don’t break. We will all be the children
of the children who sat behind their parents in the “front row” and someday we will become the “front row”
and until that time comes I send this out to all the children, nieces and nephews, cousins who feel the cycle of life and
death. And when you find yourself faced with loss, I hope you will be grateful as I am to have had someone so extraordinary
in my life who I can continue to carry in my heart. Sure, there is grief i my heart but there is also gratitude.
I don’t want to go back to
the days of my youth. I’ve always been someone who was focused on the future (sometimes so much so that I made
it impossible for myself to enjoy what was happening at the moment for me) but for right now I’m going to instead focus
on right now. And right now, I’m so thankful to have had this man in my life. There is no doubt that my father has been
the strongest influence in my life on what I think a man can and should be but his uncles and cousins over those summers shaped
me too, none more so than Terry. And although I’ll never see his face again, I see it when I close my eyes. I feel him
in my heart. I feel his arm around me saying, “Son, it’s going to be all right.” And I finally believe him,
something I never did as a child.
Seriously People, Look Behind You Every Once In Awhile For All Our Sakes!
People, Look Behind You Every Once In Awhile For All Our Sakes! – Don’t Get Me Started!
I know we’re all supposed to not dwell on the past. We’re supposed to learn from the past but
always look forward to the horizon, to our future. And while I’m currently in therapy trying to actually deal with the
here and now, being “present” I began to think about all of the things that happen behind us that no one seems
to consider and so as always I’ve decided to consider and make you aware of what I think y’all should all ready
know but apparently you don’t know or know that you should care about. Seriously people, look behind you every once
in awhile for all our sakes! – Don’t Get Me Started!
When driving a car people, take some time to use that freaking rear view mirror will you? As you meander
from lane to lane looking for your exit or street (usually with no turn signal) remember that you are not the only one on
the road. There are others who actually know where the hell they’re going usually stuck behind you and would like to
get there if you weren’t in the way. Look behind you.
All of you people who feel the need to wear flip flops everywhere, sandals, clogs or the dreaded Crocs; loofah
and moisturize your heels people. The first thing is that I don’t want to have to look at your naked feet to begin with
but if you’re insisting on all of us looking at your “crusty dustys” for Chrissakes scrub off the rough
spots and moisturize, moisturize, moisturize (and while we’re at it, men would it kill you to clip those talons that
have taken the place of your toenails?). Also, if for any reason you actually have a fungus, yellow toe nails or just nasty
ass feet, put those potatoes in their sack – in other words, there’s a reason God invented socks…get some.
But the heels, the heels seem to be the place no one pays attention. Again, look behind you.
Your ass should be something to be admired but if you’re one of those people who have the dreaded long,
flat ass you’re all ready working at a disadvantage so don’t make matters worse. To everyone else, take a brief
moment to look in a mirror and see how your ass looks in the pants you have on. For women who wear yoga pants everywhere you
seem to have no clue that your ass has eaten most of the fabric that makes up the pants to the point where they look like
you’re wearing Capri length pants to the straight boys who walk around with their pants so low that it sort of frames
their ass in their underwear attracting gay men more than I’m sure they’d like, how your ass looks is important
to all of us. Look behind you.
the world is full of things to look at in front of us, I encourage all of you to take a few moments each day to look behind
you because those of us who are behind you are getting quite the view. A view frankly that sometimes makes a little queasy.
Sure there are times that we’re loving what we’re seeing but take a few minutes to see what we’re seeing
and decide if it makes you queasy (then fix it) or if you love it! Look behind you!
Sloppy Americans May Have Taken The Glamour Out Of It And Terrorists May Have Made It A Hassle But I Still Love An Airport!
Americans May Have Taken The Glamour Out Of It And Terrorists May Have Made It A Hassle But I Still Love An Airport! –
Don’t Get Me Started!
Long have I bemoaned the fact that
there is no longer any glamour when traveling via aircraft. I recall being a youth in a tie and sports jacket as my parents
boarded us onto a plane to visit relatives in what seemed far off lands (Delaware). We were well versed in such things as
how to behave on a plane (believe it or not, people used to teach their kids to shut up and that they weren’t the only
beings on the planet) to ask for playing cards and maybe if we were lucky a pair of plastic wings were coming our way if we
behaved appropriately. But as I began traveling almost weekly for business I had lost any excitement or happiness when it
came to dealing with airports. However that was awhile ago and much to my amazement I haven’t been in an airport for
over a year until this past weekend. Sloppy Americans may have taken the glamour out of it and terrorists may have made it
a hassle but I still love an airport! – Don’t Get Me Started!
It was hardly a trip to another continent I was making (in reality it was less than an hour in the air) but
as I prepared for my weekend getaway I was flush with the excitement of possibilities. The most exciting thing was that I
was a gay man who was going to be traveling for a weekend (and going to a brunch on Sunday) and managed to fit everything
I needed into one smart leather duffle-type bag. I had my three ounce versions of all of my liquids neatly tucked into their
quart sized Ziplock bag and I was more than good to go.
Much to my surprise there were no long lines at security coming or going. (I’m sure this had something
to do with my general happy demeanor regarding the trip.) And as I looked around at my fellow travelers I reveled in the fact
that airports are still one of the greatest locations in the world to people watch. To see and be seen as it were. I love
the business men on their phones trying to seem much more important than they are, I love the girls dressed to the nines who
don’t realize they look more like working girls than Kardashians and I love the families with the harried parents trying
to hold it all together when what they really want to do is just scream at the top of their lungs.
These people who were put together by random circumstances become
a sort of ballet to me. As I plug my ears with my ear buds and change the soundtrack with the touch of my finger, the “dancers”
move through their activities never knowing how much enjoyment they’re giving me. The girls with too much makeup on,
hair extensions and plumped up lips throw their hair back while my iPod blares in my head, “Toot toot, hey…beep,
beep…bad girls, talking bout the sad girls…” then the man with the wedding ring eyeing up the college
boy with lust dripping from every pore, “Young man, there’s no need to feel down, I said, young man, pick yourself
off the ground…” Yes, it’s all true, sloppy Americans may have taken the glamour out of it and terrorists
may have made it a hassle but I still love an airport! – Don’t Get Me Started!
Do Me A Favor, Go Ahead And See That Iím Gay And That My Spouse Is Black!
Do Me A Favor, Go Ahead And See That I’m Gay And That My
Spouse Is Black! – Don’t Get Me Started!
I can’t listen to one more person say, “I don’t see color.”
Unless you’re looking at life on your old black and white television from the 1950’s, you see color and even to
infer that you don’t as some big medal of honor makes me sick. Do me a favor, go ahead and see that I’m gay and
that my spouse is black! – Don’t Get Me Started!
Yes, we can all agree that racism in America is better than it was in the 1950’s
but it’s not gone. Nor for that matter is homophobia, anti-Semitism, and so on and so on. I am a Jewish gay man who
has a spouse who was a former altar boy and is black. I like to say, “Yes, we’re the poster children for hate
crimes.” But what I really want to say is that as a forty-something gay who grew up knowing few black people, I had
no idea what their struggles were, only my own. My own as a young boy being told by a neighbor boy that had played with us
for so long knocking on our door saying, “I can’t play with you anymore because my Dad says you’re dirty
Jews.” My own experience of being bullied and beat up being called names like, “fag” everyday at school.
And when my spouse and I found one another and fell in love, it wasn’t because of these experiences but as we go through
our 23rd year together I am more and more aware just how much most people want those of us who have been discriminated
against to “get over it” or feel that we should just go silent. But what they don’t realize is that inequality
should never be “tolerated” and should always be shown the light of day for what it is. So as long as I can, I
will continue to tell people that yes, things have changed but we still have a long way to go.
I’ve always said that I much prefer the people who have
a “problem” with me being Jewish or gay or whatever to come out and say it. I take great pride in leaving most
of the “you’re going to hell” comments on my blog so that people can see just how much further we all need
to go when it comes to equality and fair treatment of all. But the ones that really piss me off are the politically correct
people who are so gracious as to “tolerate” gays or “hate the sin but not the sinner.” Those people
who think they’re being so nice and loving but really are just white washing their hate with a cheap coat of
paint that is going to wear through very quickly.
So do me a favor. Don’t say, “I don’t even see color” go ahead and see
the color of someone’s skin. For it’s not in the seeing that makes you a racist, it’s the belief in saying
that you don’t see it that diminishes what and who the person is in front of you. By saying you don’t see their
color or them being Jewish or gay or whatever you are not seeing the full person that stands in front of you. And I want to
be seen…fully. I want you to see all of me, not just some stereotype and certainly not what you think is the politically
polite thing to see. I’m not saying that you have to like me, I’m just saying that you have to see me.
Who Creates Corporate Buzzwords? Itís Certainly Not In My Wheelhouse!
Who Creates Corporate Buzzwords? It’s Certainly Not In My
Wheelhouse! – Don’t Get Me Started!
It never ceases to amaze me how people can take a bunch of words that you know (or sort of know)
and turn them into some magical word or phrase that within minutes everyone seems to be using. This is especially true in
the corporate world. Now I’m not talking about “going postal” or taking a noun and making it a verb, I’m
talking about the mystical magical corporate buzzwords that as clever as they may seem to an outsider are really just a way
of saying nothing at all. Who creates corporate buzzwords? It’s certainly not in my wheelhouse! – Don’t
Get Me Started!
remember years ago, everyone in the corporate culture wanted to take everything “offline.” In a big meeting with
a bunch of people when confronted with actually having to “show your work” or knowledge of something and have
no idea, just say loudly in front of everyone, “I think that’s a discussion we should take offline. Have your
assistant set up a meeting for us, will ya?” This serves its purpose on many levels. It’s sort of a corporate
“get out of jail free” card for the moment and in one swoop you’ve made the other executive look subservient
by having their assistant set up the meeting instead of yours. What you have to do after an encounter like this is either
get your shit together so that you’re ready for the meeting or keep avoiding the “offline” conversation
by being so busy “online” with other meetings and talking to other people that you can basically forget about
the topic being brought up until the next big meeting at which point you’ll have to look for another buzzword that is
more current to get you out of talking about it again. Exhausting, right? And people wonder why there aren’t more successful
companies in the United States.
The corporate buzzword of the moment seems to be, “wheelhouse.” Now again, I have no idea how
it got started, what it really says and so like most people working in the corporate culture, you have to sort of listen to
the context clues of the other words in the sentence to make sense of it. The way that I’ve heard it used is like, “We
should give that to Tom, it’s in his wheelhouse.” So I think it means an area of expertise or at the very least,
the guy that you’re going to shove the work off on. But to me, the whole wheelhouse thing sounds like something that
would be in an Amish village or something. I mean, they drive buggies to and fro so wouldn’t it make sense that someone
has to make, maintain and put the wheels on the buggies? And wouldn’t they do it in a wheelhouse? When I looked it up
online it says something about it being the shelter for the person driving the boat. Hmmm, so it still doesn’t make
sense to me that they’d be using it as a corporate buzzword. Maybe because the wheelhouse only shelters the captain
and it’s the one guy that they’re going to shove the work off on?
Growing up my parents didn’t spend a lot of time washing
our mouths out with soap for saying so-called, “bad” words. To my parents it was more important that we express
ourselves, that we be heard. They wanted us to choose our words carefully but if an occasional swear word slipped out, it
wasn’t the end of the world and no beatings ensued. I love a good “curse word.” I love how it feels in my
mouth, the reaction that it gets and so I am not afraid to let one fly. But at least with curse words, people know what in
the hell you’re talking about. These buzzwords always leave you wondering what the person is saying and what you’ve
just committed yourself to. So whoever it is that creates the corporate buzzwords, please stop. And you people who call yourselves
executives, just say what you mean and you’ll get a lot more respect than if you stay in your wheelhouse. (Was that
the right way to use that? Who the hell knows, geez!) Who creates corporate buzzwords? It’s certainly not in my wheelhouse!
– Don’t Get Me Started!
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
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 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?