A debriefing post-Golden Globes between Ricky Gervais and Hollywood Foreign Press Association President, Phillip Berk.

Phillip Berk: Well, what do you have to say for yourself?

Ricky Gervais: I’m a professional jack-ass (proceeds to fling his bow-tie in the air while screaming “Woo Hoo”).

PB: Are you drunk?

RG: Are you Norwegian?

PB: Come now, man, get a hold of yourself.

RG: Don’t you see, I’m more a hold of myself then anyone else here.

PB: How so?

RG: Because I’m holding myself. (Motions to his hands holding his crotch).

PB: You will never host the Golden Globes ever again.  You’ve disgraced us!

RG: You slag’s disgraced yourselves when you gave bloody Pia Zadora a Golden Globe!

PB: Her name is to never be mentioned in the presence of a Golden Globe member, it’s in the contract all winner’s must sign.

RG: In addition to the money they’ve already spent to win a piece of marble with a ball on top?

PB: Please, if you would, just give me one explanation for why you did what you did?

RG: Alright, here it is.  Lindsay Lohan is a close, personal friend of mind.  She called me from Betty Ford to wish me luck on tonight’s show.  And then she broke down.  We chatted about the bad press she’s received lately, and when it would end.  So I told her I’d give her a reprieve from it.

PB: So you purposely bombed so that Lindsay Lohan would get a reprieve from bad press?

RG: That’s correct.

PB: That’s down right noble of you.  Good man!

RG: Thank you.  That being said, how much is going to cost to get her to be Miss Golden Globe next year?

PB: $50,000 and a night alone with me and Pia Zadora.

RG: Deal!

PB: See you next year, Mister host of the Golden Globes 2012!

I do a lot of stupid things, none of which I’m all that ashamed of.  Okay, maybe the time in 5th grade when my friend asked if I wanted a cookie.  I took both of the offered cookies from him and ate them immediately, only to realize that the other one was for him.  Everything else I’m cool with.

• Getting my zodiac sign tattooed on my wrist, later figuring out that my sign looks like “69″  – that’s cool!
• Mulling over a piercing for weeks, only to settle on a taint piercing – awesome!
• Learning rather late in life that it’s better to wipe sitting down then standing up – unfortunate, but not entirely embarrassing.

Having this quality to block shame is a gift, truly, and I’m grateful for it (even flaunt it).  But when it comes to love, I’m an embarrassed 14 year old girl with a crush on Justin Beiber.    Why?  I don’t know.  I can’t pin point where in my past I became so awkward with intimacy.

I’ve read that men who have had (or have) very close relationships with their mother, as I have, often have difficulties finding love because nobody can replace Mama.  But I don’t buy this, I’m not looking for a dude in a wig named Kathy who will cook me a huge bowl of hash browns whenever I want.

When it comes to the “hunt” for love, I’m not necessarily aggressive, but I’m certainly not shy.  I think I treat it like a gig: work out what I’m going say, approach the stage, high energy-high energy, BAM- engage the audience, give em an A joke, throw in some new stuff, finish strong, applause-applause…  I can get a man’s attention, keep it, make them think I’m super cool (while at the same time I’m going over if I’ve cleaned my apartment, because he’s not going to think I’m cool if he see’s how I live), but then it comes to make the “move” (finish strong), and I strike out.

A friend told me that I should visualize what I want.  I’d prefer a taller man, somebody successful in their career, black or of the general non-white variety, a Midwesterner would be nice, a little older perhaps…

You see what I mean by striking out?  Always going for the unavailable blokes!  Sigh.

WARNING TO FUTURE NYC TRANSPLANTS: You will be charged a New York City tax to live here.  It’s true, and kind of ingenious.  Not only is the rent “Too Damn High,” but they stiff with you a city tax.  I learned this horrible reality last April when I filed my taxes.

“You owe the city of New York $870,” the H & R Block lady told me.

“The city of New York owes me a competent Mayor and a reliable transportation system, but you don’t see me billing City Hall!”

I finally got around to paying the bill (figured I’d make them beg for it, turns out they don’t beg, just issue warrants), but they don’t make it easy.

I was prepared to pay online, but a magical assessment number was needed.  Naturally I waited to do this whole process until after the tax offices were closed for the evening.  I went through mounds of paperwork, nowhere was this magic number.

Hour after hour I searched, through papers, online, nothing!  With each passing hour it became more and more apparent, I’m totally an adult.  Yes, at 28, I am still young.  Sure, I could call my Mom for help, but that’s pathetic.  At 28 you can still claim to be young, but you’re too old to fuck up.  It’s the “No Fuck Up,” age. If this happened to me at 22, people would think, “Okay, you’re stupid, but young.”  Now I’m just stupid.

The next morning I talked to a lovely woman in the tax office who promptly gave me my assessment number and explained the process to me.  And then I paid the man, aka the state, their money.

Essentially I gave New York a $870 Christmas present.  Honestly though, it’s sort of worth it, because no other city in the world compares to New York City (except for maybe Atlanta, but that’s only because it’s where Fresca comes from).

Merry Christmas!

“You like dirty jokes,” the crazy Australian backpacker asked me while I was visiting England.

“I can appreciate a naughty joke when I hear one,” I responded.

Little did I know this would become an invitation for anti-Semitic rhetoric and violence.

Sometimes I question whether to tell people I do comedy when I first meet them.  The “Tell me a joke,” inevitably follows.  It’s not like you ask a trash man to take your unwanted trash after meeting him on line at the movies, do you?  Thank you.

My travels have taught me one thing, Australians only like Christian white people.  I’m sorry, I’m generalizing, not all Australians are this way.  Just most of them.

This backpacker (who backpacks in England?), said a couple of dirty jokes, which I half-giggled at, and then worked his way into Holocaust jokes (obviously, because that’s a natural progression from sex jokes).  I won’t give the joke the time of day it never deserved to see, but let’s just say ovens were involved.  Shocked, I begin to attempt to work myself out of the conversation when…. A BIG CANADIAN JEW APPROACHED US!!!  Oy vey!!!

He got in the Auusie’s face, just moments away from giving him something to really challah about.  And then he turned to me.

“And you think these jokes are funny?”

“No, I never laughed, no, not funny at all,” I said, whimpering in the Canadian’s shadow (they make em big there!).

“You just support these kind of jokes, eh?”

“Excuse me?!?  I’m a gay New Yorker.  I’ve probably dated more Jews then you!”

This didn’t appease him.

“Hitler associated with Jews too,” he said.  This dude was unreal.

He then started pushing the Aussie, which was my signal to leave.

Lesson learned: Avoid Australian’s telling jokes in the same room with Canadian Jews.  It’s a recipe for disaster.  Coincidentally, this also explains why Mel Gibson has gone nuts in Hollywood.

You know it’s 2010 when one of your very favorite and least favorite things about being a gay man is an iPhone application.  Yes, ladies and germs, I’m talking about Grindr.

Now for the two of you who aren’t familiar with Grindr, it essentially tells you the men in your immediate area (set by GPS) that are looking to hook up or connect.  It’s sort of genius actually.  I’ve overheard straight people wonder why they don’t have an application like this.  You do.  It’s called “Happy Hour.”

I’m a traditional minded homo in an unconventional urban gay mecca that is more driven by sex then rational thought.  If I’m going to survive, I’ve got to assimilate.  Which means sometimes you gotta hook up and hope maybe they’ll want to get together again to play board games or watch “The Golden Girls” together.

Below is a timeline of events from a recent hook up (or rather, attempt):

10:45 p.m. – I get on Grindr, Chaz (not his real name, or Chaz Bono) messages me.  We’ve been chatting for a couple of weeks, he just wants sex, I insist on having a drink.  The drink idea is not to get to know him better, but rather to avoid the awkward moment of showing up at somebodies place and realizing that you do not want to have sex with him afterall, for reasons only apparent by an in person meeting (usually due to bad skin, false representation of appearance, or lack of limbs).

11:00 p.m. – He wants to meet, but I’m too tired. I sign off.

11:23 p.m. - I can’t sleep.  I text him.  Or rather, sext him.  It goes back and forth.

12:01 a.m. – I give in and agree to meet him at his place (just a couple blocks away).  He’s telling me to take my time, but it’s cold, late, and I’m feeling the entitlement come out in me, “Take my time? I’m finally agreeing to meet you, accommodate!”

12:23 a.m. – Standing outside, in the cold, still waiting.

12:34 a.m. – He finally shows up.  Says that I can’t come up because his roommate is awake, and straight, and they have a rule of having no guys over (this should have been my first sign of trouble, but my libido was on autopilot at this point).  He suggests he come over to my place, says he’ll meet me there.  I reluctantly agree.

12:50 a.m. - I get home, immediately clean the place in anticipation of sexy time.

1:03 a.m. – TEXT: “Where you at?” No response.  14 year old girl depressing thoughts start entering my head.  Consider writing poetry.

1:15 a.m. – Still no response.  Considering doing some Carnie Wilson level stress eating.

1:30 a.m. - Still nothing.  Hope dwindling.  Turn on “Sex & the City,” realize I hate Carrie Bradshaw.

1:52 a.m. - Silence.  Convinced he took one look at me and pictured Rosie O’Donnell naked.  Immediately regret skipping the gym and eating that ice cream earlier in the day.

2:14 a.m. – TEXT: “I’m going to bed.” I considered saying, “I’m going to bed, douchebag,” but immediately pictured cops showing up at my door two days later informing me that was the last text Chaz received before he was found dead on the street, clinching roses in his hand down the street from my apartment.

6:45 a.m. – Wake up and Google, “Man, NYC, dead, street, flowers.”  No results except for this. It got real.

LESSON LEARNED: Love is a battlefield.

The Magic of Fresca from H. Alan Scott on Vimeo.

Fresca is a sophisticated grapefruit flavored carbonated beverage. It holds magical qualities. It is a product of Coca Cola, and is available on Delta Airlines exclusively, but the heart and soul of Fresca lives within H. Alan Scott.

http://facebook.com/HAlanScott
http://twitter.com/HAlanScott
http://halanscott.com

Checking out at Trader Joe’s.

ME: Hi.

CLERK: How are you?

ME: I’m okay, how are you?

CLERK: I’m fine.

ME: That’s great!

CLERK: Actually, I take that back, I’m not really fine.  In a city filled with millions of people, I’m a little lonely.

ME: Oh, yeah?  That’s too bad.  Have you considered a dating website? (Don’t engage Scott!)

CLERK: I have, but you see, I have this large birthmark on my face, can you see it?

ME: (Clearly able to make out the massive birthmark going down the center of his face) Me?  No, I hadn’t really noticed.

CLERK: Yeah, it’s there.

ME: (I know it is!) Well, when you meet the person you love, they won’t, THAT WAS $3.99!, um, they will be able to look past that, and other things.

CLERK: Other things?

ME: Yeah, other little things you don’t like about yourself .

CLERK: Like what?

ME: I don’t know, what don’t you like about yourself?

CLERK: My birthmark.

ME: Okay, but like, other things?

CLERK: Like what?

ME: Like your hair.

CLERK: I like my hair.  But I think I might be balding.  Which will only make the birthmark more visible.  Debit or Credit?

ME: Credit.  Well clearly your birthmark didn’t you hold you back from going after and getting this great job at Trader Joe’s.

CLERK: You see, my buddy manages this location.  So I kind of had an in, ya know?

ME: So you have friends!

CLERK: Of course I have friends.  Everyone has friends.

ME: No, not everyone.

CLERK: Who then?

ME: Um.  Well, I can’t think of any right now, but…

CLERK: Anyway, I’m not talking about friends, I want a romantic connection.

ME: Have you considered makeup?

CLERK: For what?

ME: To cover up the birthmark?

CLERK: What, you saying I should cover it up, be ashamed of it?

ME: I just would like to pay for my groceries and leave.

CLERK: I think that’s probably a good idea.

Guess what?  The biggest decision I’ve made today is whether to part my hair on the left or the right.  It’s been a full day!

It’s Saturday night and I’m reluctantly staying in because I have work early in the morning (5:15 a.m. early, which is more suicidal early then just early).  To be perfectly honest, I want to meet someone and go home with them.  I’m beyond just horny, that’s just vulgar.  I suppose you could say I’m in urgent need of a connection.

The kicker?  I’m a homosexual male living in the world’s most urban city.  The only type of connection a New York City gay is looking for is a WiFi spot.  Correction, Manhattan gays, of which I am.  Outer borough gays have their own thing going on, often in a domestic setting (excluding Williamsburg).

I have one simple rule, if I meet a guy online or Grindr (a gay male iPhone app that shows you the guys in your area looking to hook up), I require that we meet at a bar before doing what needs to get done.  Simple enough, right?  You’d think so!  So many are willing to just show up at a strangers place.

Now I’m not worried about getting raped or robbed, which I gather would the first thing most people would think would keep them from doing this.  No, I don’t want to go because I fear confrontation.  If I meet them and they aren’t attractive, then I’m in a sticky situation.  I’m in their apartment (or they’re in mine), and ready to get the job done.  Do you just close your eyes and say, “Go with God,” or do you awkwardly try to get out of the situation.  I suppose I could be blunt, but I also fear losing karma points.  You see, this is not easy.

I respect straight people.  You go to a bar, or chat in your office, or out with friends, meet someone nice, hang out, and that eventually bang each other.  But there’s that initial, “Okay, you’re somebody I’d like to lick” that predates the banging.  I respect this.  Most NYC gays do not.

I know what you’re thinking, “Go on Match.com or OkCupid, set up dates.”  I’ve done this, with minimal success.  Because these guys are too provincial for me.  They are focused on taking it slow.  I don’t want slow, I’m okay getting the job done that night, I just gotta make out with you at the bar first.  Is that too much to ask for?

Today I met a man on Grindr.  This conversation went:

• Man: Hey
• Me: Hi.
• Man: What are you into?
• Man: (INSERT DICK PIC)
• Man: (INSERT DIFFERENT ANGLE OF DICK PIC)
• Man: More pics?
• Me: I’m Scott.
• awkward silence
• Man: Dick pic?
• Me: I don’t have a pic of Dick Cheney.  Possibly Dick Clark, let me check.
• awkward silence
• Me: I don’t have a dick pic.
• Man: Bye

These are the people I’m dealing with!

I suppose I must give up some things in order to live and work in the city that I love.

Or maybe just get a dick pic?

I’m funny… lookin.  I make lots of jokes and wacky faces.  My unnatural affinity for Fresca is weird and silly.

But one thing I’m dead serious about is AIDS Walk Los Angeles.  Sponsor me at http://tinyurl.com/frescafightsAIDS.

1 in 5 men who have sex with men that live in urban areas are infected with the HIV virus.

Every 9 and a half seconds somebody becomes infected with the HIV/AIDS virus.

AIDS Project Los Angeles (http://apla.org/), the benefactor of AIDS Walk Los Angeles, serves thousands of people in the Los Angeles area vital, life sustaining services.

Please, I can’t do this without you.  I’ve set a goal to raise $1,000 for APLA and AWLA, but I need you to help me!

Sponsor me at http://tinyurl.com/frescafightsAIDS.

I came to St. Louis, MO to visit my family over the July 4th holiday weekend.  It’s always nice coming home.  Before I arrive I always have lofty goals of writing, catching up on sleep, exercising, basically rejuvenating myself before I return to the daily urban grind.  Instead I just wind up overeating and watching Asian porn.

My mom tells stories by starting every sentence with, “I said…,” “Then she said…,” “And I went…,” and “I’m going…”  You’d think with that level of detail I would be able to follow, but I still don’t know who said what or where they went.

Missouri is known as the “Show Me State.”  They should amend this to, “Show Me Your Passive Aggressive State.”  Everywhere I’ve gone I’ve witnessed moments of passive aggressive awkwardness.  My brother said to my mother, “I guess I’ll just wait for coffee.”  I heard somebody say, “Wow, that’s a great parking spot, I was going for it, but I’m glad you got it!”  Probably my favorite is the bus signs all around the neighborhood, “Service terminated due to lack of funding.”

There’s no place like home.