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.

I don’t have a dad. Well, that’s a lie, everybody has a dad. Even though I do think there’s a real possibility that I got here by immaculate conception.

My mother was probably drinking a Fresca during the hot July month in 1982, perplexed as to why she gained so much weight over the past couple of months. Whip, bam, boom, out popped the H. Actually, if you talk to my Mom, I didn’t pop out, but rather was pulled out kicking and screaming, in the process breaking three of her ribs.

My parents divorced in the late 80’s, I lived with my father for a couple year’s thereafter, until he decided that I should live with my Mom. He was around for a couple of years after that, but then in 1996, he disappeared. I know he moved to Germany, and the one time I spoke to him in the year’s since he was living in Virginia.

I’m not sad over his absence, I have a wonderful step-dad, but I can’t help but wonder sometimes what he’s up to. I think I’ve come up with a pretty good list of possibilities:

1) He’s the guy who puts the lovely chocolate mint on our pillows at hotels.

2) He’s hunting down Osama bin Laden.

3) He’s Rachel Maddow’s personal assistant.

4) He’s the cab driver that stops for you the moment it starts to rain.

5) He’s a Fresca delivery man.

I think the latter option is more likely than the others.

Wherever he is, he should remain a mystery. I like thinking about him every time I drink a Fresca rather than actually have him in my life.

Unless he’s a millionaire and needs to get rid of some dough. I’m just saying, I got a one-man show that isn’t going to pay for itself!

Watch as I learn the most important question I will have to ask during my trip to Buenos Aires in July, “Do you have a Fresca?”

Many more videos to come in the weeks ahead as I learn Spanish, figure out what to do in Buenos Aires, and learn the Argentine way of life.

In honor of Cinco de Mayo, I went on a 6 mile run this morning, culminating in a jump over a fence.

This Cinco de Mayo is bittersweet in light of the recent events in Arizona. I’m convinced they passed that horrible piece of racist legislation just so that the police fould make bookoo bucks in overtime pay today. Lame!

And now, the unofficial Mexican ambassador to the world (even though she’s really Spanish), CHARO!

And now a “WHO KNEW!” moment: Charo’s full name is María Rosario Pilar Martínez Molina Moquiere de les Esperades Santa Ana Romanguera y de la Najosa Rasten.

You’re welcome.

Whenever I had friends over as a kid, they’d look around my room and come to my wall of VHS tapes and CD’s. They were impressed with my action movies and Led Zepplin collection. Luckily they didn’t ever want to partake in any of them, or else they would have found the secret contents of what were behind the sleeves.

And it’s not what you’re probably thinking (at least with the VHS tapes).

For example, if they wanted to watch Die Hard, and put in the tape, they would have found the film Steel Magnolias conveniently left at the dramatic emotional breakdown of Sally Field.

Maybe they would want to listen to the Greatest Hits of Bob Marley.  They would have been surprised that Bob sounded an awful lot like Whitney Houston.

BTW - I practiced over and over the moment that I would one day be able to say to somebody, “You got a, you got a, way the you’re makin’ me, feel I can, feel I can, do anything for ya baby.”  It’s gonna happen… someday.

It’s amazing how the things we like can also be the same things that give us shame.

Naturally it got easier to be more open with my “sissy” artistic tastes, but not always.  Even today, among a bunch of homo’s, there’s a lot of shame in some circles for liking Madonna or Lady Gaga, etc.

And to that, I give you this, and kindly say, “Get over yourself and have some fun!”

Let’s bake!

I really do like the people of San Francisco, I swear!

I vlogged a log.  Check it out.

As a former Mormon, let me share a little secret about Mormons: we really don’t give a hoot about Jesus.  He’s great and all, was very popular, a great marketer and people person, but the J in our Big J stands for Joseph Smith.

You see, to many Mormons, Jesus was just a good party promoter.  He “worked” as a carpenter, but let’s be honest, that was just a front to chat it up with people about his link to God.  Can you name one thing he built?  Thank you.

If you think about it, he kind of did what most people do everyday, hang out on Facebook.  Except his was a more organic Facebook, with actual pokes and verbal comments.

My mom puts it best, “Jesus is like Jay Leno, he never did a hard day’s work in his life!”

This past weekend I was uncontrollably sweaty.  I don’t know what caused this constant state of moistness under my arms.  Friday to Sunday evening, wet.

I clearly remember the first time I noticed sweat under my arms.

It was my first day of 5th grade (but everybody else’s second, my family was still on vacation for the first day of school).   I wore a maroon Arizona Jean’s Company T-Shirt that day.  That morning I noticed sweat dripping down from my armpits.  “What’s going on,” I thought?  To conceal the sweat, I began to stuff the shirt into my armpits.

Well, lunchtime eventually came and I had to stand up from my desk.  As I stood, the wet, stuffed remnants of my shirt cascaded down leaving me with two very large circles of sweat.

Great first impression.

I’m still a sweater, but I’ve since learned ways to conceal the sweat: wear black!

Have you heard of the new fad in social networking?  It’s called FourSquare, and it’s basically a more interactive Yelp.  How it works is when you’re out and about, you jump on FourSquare and check in, maybe write a little thing about what you think of the place.  Then your friends get a pop up on their phones letting you know where you are (weird!), and what you think of the place (who cares!).  The more you visit a place, the more points you get, resulting in you eventually becoming Mayor of a particular location (and owning that shit!).

Being a social networking slut (follow me on Twitter), of course I use it.  I’m often distracted by where my friends are visiting (one friend makes a daily trip to the bakery.  no judgement, I swear!), and enjoy catching them in little white lies (”I swear, I really have a sensitivity to gluten, I just go to that bakery for the coffee!”).

In my case, my check-in’s paint a unique and well rounded lifestyle.  Of course I have many points from comedy clubs, I’m very high up in attendance at Crunch gym locations, and I hold my own with the FourSquare bar lovers!  My day job is at a very popular AIDS service location in New York City.  It’s a wonderful job, I love it, and I check in there daily.  I’m so close to gaining Mayor status!

So what does this say about me to somebody who doesn’t know me?  Essentially they see me as an incredibly physically fit comedian with an alcohol problem who may or may not have AIDS.

Maybe I should rethink this FourSquare thing?

Often I will Google “Ricky Martin” late at night.  It’s not that I enjoy his music, or really anything he’s ever done.  It’s just a freakish fascination with him.

Think about it.  Here you have this huge Latin star, arguably one of the biggest in the world, yet he leads such a private life.  And by “private life,” I mean “gay life.”  He’s totally gay! The dude adopted twins and he’s single.  How many “straight” guys do that (Michael Jackson doesn’t count, he was coo coo for Cocoa Puffs)?

What’s even more impressive (and I use that word lightly, because I don’t think “impressive” and “Ricky Martin” have ever been uttered in the same sentence), is that he comes from a community that is typically hostile toward gay people.  But yet he’s still doing his thang, shaking his la vida loca.

Yes, he’s not out.  But I’m not one of those gays who subscribes to the need for every gay celebrity to be out and proud.  I’m okay with Anderson Cooper and Jodie Foster playing the DL card (that’s not to say that Cooper or Foster are black men having sexual relations with other men while engaging in relationships with women).  And in the case of Martin, maybe his coming out would ease some of the tension in the Hispanic community toward the gays.

But Martin doesn’t act as the moral compass for the Hispanic community.  He’s a one hit American wonder that delighted the rest of the world with his jaunty hips and crisp hair. Okay, so stay in the closet.

So, my Google love affair with Ricky Martin remains.  I’m not really looking for anything, nor can I explain why I do it (why do you check PerezHilton.com so often?).  All I know is that it brings me peace late at night knowing that Martin is holding his twins in his arms, living his closeted gay lifestyle while still wooing impressionable women across the world with his Duan Juan ways.

Now that’s a gift!

Last night was the premiere of my new show at Comix, The Tweet Spot: The Twitter Game Show.  Word on the street is that it was a hit.  And by street I mean the internet highway via all the positive response tweets on Twitter.

How the show works: 1 - A contestant reads their Tweets. 2 - The audience then votes to ReTweet it (if they liked it), or Unfollow it (if they didn’t like it). 3 - The person with the most ReTweets wins!

There’s also a part of the show called “The Hashtag Dash,” where I spin a wheel and the contestants must shout out as many possibilities for whatever hashtag the wheel lands on.  A hashtag on Twitter is like a category, so for example, #RejectedMovieTitles would result in “Schindler’s Notebook,” etc.

Last night Mark Normand, Julia Segal, Adam Newman and Claudia Cogan all performed to much fanfare!

RT @blaudiablogan It’s always been my fantasy to call the cops on my rape fantasy.  It’ll be my charges pressed against theirs & it’ll be hot.

RT @marknorm My friend says he can sense whose racist.  Like the way some people have gay-dar.  He calls it radar.

RT @Adam_Newman There are 169 people in the United States named James Schwartz.  There are 0 people named Bermuda Shorts.

RT @JuliaSegal When a parent refer to “poking” someone on Facebook as “fingering”… I suggest drinking til you pass out… or crying.

All night long the lovely Kambri Crews tweeted away at Twitter.com/ComixNY!  We even read some hilarious tweets from the funny man Dave Hill and Hal Sparks sent in a TwitPic.  WitStream.com provided some silly reading during the show and Frescas, Peep candies, and Twit Wit edited by Nick Douglas and published by It Books were given out.

If you missed last night, do not fret, the next #TweetSpot is on Thursday, March 18th at 9pm at Comix!  Don’t miss it!

Oh yeah, and follow me at Twitter.com/HAlanScott.

Okay, that’s harsh, I’m not really an idiot.  Dimwitted I guess.

Wait!  The definition for “dimwit” is “A stupid person,” which I certainly am not.  What am I then?

Verbally Inadequate.  Yes, this is a good way to describe my problem.  I wonder if they have a group for people like me?  I guess they do, but I think at my age I would look strange in a 5th grade English class.

I often misuse/pronounce certain phrases and words.  It’s horrible, I get it from my mother.  Both her and I are scatter brained people, who love to talk, but struggle for the right phrase or word to illustrate our point.

What separates myself from my mother is that she does this on a very small scale, where as I stand on stage in front of strangers and use the wrong word to describe something, resulting in the audience to correcting me.  But honestly, my verbal inadequacy enhances my appeal onstage.  I’m not embarrassed by my verbal flubs, for it fuels the comedy.

But I make the same mistakes in my everyday life.  When I don’t know the meaning of something, I’ll ask, “What’s that mean?”  I’m not embarrassed or ashamed.  It’s only until people around me start to laugh that I get self-conscious.  Once I’m told the meaning of the word, people continue to laugh.  They think I’m naive, certainly uneducated, and then continue to treat me that way.

This makes me wonder, when did people turn into such douche bags?  How self-conscious must one feel that they need to poke fun at somebody else in order to feel more superior?  I am not your therapist, if you need to feel better about yourself, watch “Dr. Phil,” don’t use my honesty to deal with your inferiority complex.

I am not ashamed to admit when I don’t know something.  No shame should come of that.  Instead the information should be passed from one person to the next, thus spreading the knowledge, eventually creating harmony!

Or should I say it will create a harmonious environment?  Or maybe an environment of harmony?  Hmmmmm.

One of my favorite things about living in New York City is overhearing some of the very best conversations you will ever hear from the most color characters you will ever meet.

Recently I overheard two women talking.  The older Jewish woman told the younger woman, “What you need is to settle down with a good Jew.”  The younger woman responded that she was still young, she needed to date many types of men before settling down.  Then the older woman responded in her heavy New York Jewish accent, “No problem, settle down with a good Jewish boy, and have a little oral on the side.”

Only in New York.

Then this respectable looking woman approached a friend of mine on the street.  “Hi,” she said in a very sweet voice.  “I like your shirt.  Do you live around here?”  Perplexed, but not concerned because she reminded him of his Aunt Helen, he acknowledged that he did live in the neighborhood.  “Oh, that’s lovely.  I was thinking I could come over some time.  Perhaps I could perform fellatio on you, maybe a slow blow.”  Whoa!

Again, only in New York.

Moral of the story, older women in New York City enjoy oral sex.

Oh yeah, and my friend and the crazy woman, keep an eye out for the wedding announcement in the Times.  Whoever said a fella couldn’t have a sugar mama?

So they tell me it’s a new year.  Interesting.  I guess I should come up with some resolutions.  Or at the very least balance my checkbook.  

Does anyone even use a checkbook anymore?

When I think about it, I can’t think of many things I would do differently.  I’m physically fit and eat moderately well, so I’ve got to keep that up.  I have a wonderful job, comedy is going well (but could be better), and have an amazing group of family and friends.  What more could I ask for?

Oh yeah, maybe a little Bette Midler in my life.

I am very critical of myself.  It’s not that I have no self-confidence, it’s just that I have little self worth (Which  is different from having no self-confidence, right?  Isn’t it?).  I will get down on myself for not getting on that show, or missing out on that opportunity, or leave the bar feel worthless after nobody noticing me.  Life isn’t easy, that’s for sure, and it’s easy to feel worthless and defeated.  

But not if you’re Bette Midler.  NOTE: I’m about to gay it out, consider yourself warned.

Her confidence onstage is inspiring.  Here you have this, by most standards, plain Jane Jewish lady who is loud, obnoxious, and at times incredibly annoying.  But she doesn’t care.  She’s so self-assured of herself that any negativity just doesn’t phase her.  It’s as if she’s immune to negativity, immune to self-doubt.  This is what I need!

So my New Year’s Resolution is, in the moments of despair, think, “Focus on the inner Bette.  Be the Bette!”  

Wow, it works!  I just thought, “Whomever reads this is going to think I’m WAY gay, and kinda pathetic.”  INNER BETTE!  ”Who cares, you obviously just don’t get it!”

My family decided to go to Disney World for Christmas.  From the beginning I was not opposed to this idea, I even encouraged it.  But as the idea set in, the thought of five people, all over the age of 25, going to a theme park that would be filled with hundreds of thousands of people, mainly of the small variety (both children and Asians), seemed exhausting and daunting.

I arrived hungover on an hour’s sleep.  This was a poor decision on my part.  The merry gentleman driving the bus was too peppy for his own good (actually, I suppose he was being peppy for his own good, it’s his job as an employee of Disney).  I was not having it.  People were attempting to talk to me, but me, dressed in all black, was willing to come off as a creepy pedophile rather than engage in conversation.

Walking around one of the Disney Parks is like being in one big sociological petri dish.  People of all kinds are cramped together in one place all experiencing the exact same thing, but with various approaches and levels of understanding.

There are a large number of people using motorized wheelchairs in the park, but I’m going to venture to say that some of these people could benefit from a little walking.  Letting these people use motorized wheelchairs is just making the problem worse.  It’s like telling an alcoholic to keep drinking, just do it out of smaller glasses.

Even the way people made their way through the crowds was interesting.  There are three groups:

1. The Accommodators: These are the people who, even though surrounded, will always be the nice one and hold the door, step out of the way, let someone else go ahead of them, etc.  These people, mostly Midwesterners, though very nice, are holding things up.  I wanted to yell, “Stop being nice, just go!”
2. Small But Mighty: People of the smaller variety walk through a crowd without any regard to people or their feet, or hips.  Not just children, but also people 5′3 and below, will push their way through a crowd, pushing hips, buttocks, crotches, whatever they got to touch to get through. A special class to this group are adults pushing strollers.  These assholes people need to wear those dog collars that electrocute the dog when it leaves the yard, but instead it sends a little shock to the prick person pushing the stroller every time they hit somebody’s ankles.
3. The Douche Bags: These are the people who will aggressively respond when people are in their way, or won’t get out of it.  These people come in all stripes.  However, and I’m just judging on a purely aesthetic level, these people look like they are George W. Bush Americans, and thus are probably packing heat, which gives them authority to be a douche bag.

The gays of Disney have their eye language.  When a fellow gay is spotted in line, a visual communication is sent out saying, “In case of a hate crime, I’m looking to you for help!  Or at the very least a Twitter update.”

Mothers tell their unruly kids, “I’m not going to tell you to ‘Stop it’ again.  I’m not going to say ‘Stop it’ again.  Don’t make me say ‘Stop It’ again.”  Mom, you just said it three times, and you’re probably going to say it a fourth time.  Don’t fear confrontation, just whack the kid!

My mother was particularly hilarious.  My mother is very open with topics that usually are not discussed in a casual manner.  For example, she will tell anyone, in detail, about all of her and my father’s health ailments.  From waiters to bell hops to fellow passengers in elevators, all of them will get the full picture of their current health status.  She wears her health ailments like they’re her Letterman jacket, and the more people she tells, the more likely she’ll get pinned!

And finally, I overheard this conversation between two people about to enter the Winnie the Pooh store at Disney.

WOMAN A: Wanna go look at Pooh?

WOMAN B: OMG, yes!  I love Pooh!

You’re welcome.

Lately I’ve been hearing a lot of comedians ask the audience, “Do we really care about Tiger Woods?”  The audience always responds in the negative, but when they go home, get into bed, pop open the laptop, they’re going to PerezHilton.com to check out the latest mistress that’s stepped forward.  

Of course we’re interested!  The question that should be asked is, “Why are we surprised that we’re this interested in the Tiger Woods story?”  It’s actually a pretty amazing story if you think about it.  

• A young man becomes an expert golf player at a ridiculously young age.
• He’s black, breaking barriers at country clubs around the world, and dashing stereotypes left and right.
• He wins big, again and again and again.
• His dad dies, he cries, we cry.
• He marries a gorgeous blond, has kids.
• He inspires people across the world!

And then we learn he’s a sex addict, cheats on his wife regularly, and is no different then most other douche bag athletes out there who feel they are above everybody else, and thus can do whatever they want.  This isn’t a necessarily bad state-of-mind, it’s the way of the beast.  We amped him up, we gave him this big head.  He was going to receive the Congressional Gold Medal because we hyped him up so much!  

So we find he’s human.  He likes to get his freak on with people other then his wife.  He has a big head and does whatever he wants (or rather, whomever).  It’s fascinating people!  Just like watching Britney’s demise a couple years ago was fascinating, or Lindsay Lohan, etc.  Except in the case of Tiger, he’s legitimately talented, which makes the story more unfortunate, but also more interesting!

The story will play itself out.  Oprah will interview, he’ll admit his addictions, lose a couple of lucrative contracts, and then win another big game in a year and be back on top again.  As for us, maybe in a year when he’s back on top, instead of getting metaphorically teabagged by his greatness, maybe we’ll look at him for what he is: a dude with a problem, who has a great talent, and a big head, but we’ll look past that, because his talent is so awesome!

New Vlog!

I am so grateful for my family.  Of course for all the obvious reasons, but mainly because they offer me so much amazing material for comedy.  They are gold mine for hilarity.  

Just a couple little comedic diddies from my last visit with them:

- We are Mormon.  At one point, we were talking in the kitchen, and the Osmonds came on TV.  Everybody fell silent.  The Osmonds are to Mormons are what Sarah Palin is to batshit crazy people (aka the Conservative wing of the Republican party) - they our are leaders, our inspiration, our Buddha.

- My mother has lost weight.  I quote, “Getting a Lupus diagnosis was hard, but also a blessing.  It’s a great diet!”

- For Thanksgiving dinner, we went to the casino buffet.  

• Side note on this one: While waiting in the long line to enter the buffet, a man fainted.  But rather than be concerned about the man, people in line were more concerned with how he was holding up the line.

- There was a moment of high drama late a night.  Yelling occurred, tears flowed, your typical Thanksgiving family moment.  What’s funny about this?  After all is well again, I check my Twitter updates.  My brother’s girlfriends most recent update: “Praying everything will be alright.”   I don’t know what’s funnier, that in a moment of disaster she turned to Twitter or the passive/vague nature of her Twitter update.

- My brother deep friend a turkey.  As he was snacking on the bird while carving it, he said, “Oh, wow, that part is cold.”  Turns out the middle of the bird not only wasn’t cooked, but was partially frozen.

- During the course of my visit, the following question was asked, “In your gay relationships, do you play the male or female role?”

There’s nothing like being with family during the holiday season.

This is the first commercial that I saw upon my return to visit family in St. Louis for Thanksgiving.  Yes, a commercial for the Midwest Hemorrhoid Treatment Center.

Advertising for the not quite ready for primetime physical ailments has always been a little shaky for companies advertising products for bladder irregularities, herpes, or hemorrhoids, among countless other ailments.  But what’s special about the Midwest Hemorrhoid Treatment Center is not only the Cable Access quality film footage they display, but also that they created a witty little jingle for themselves.

Let’s break this commercial down together, shall we?

- The child running up to the portly women at the .10 second mark.  Obviously this image is saying to all those mothers who got hemorrhoids because of pregnancy/childbirth, “Don’t hate your annoying child for giving you hemorrhoid’s, the Midwest Hemorrhoid Treatment Center can help.”  Think of a mother suffering from postpartum depression AND hemorrhoids?  Talk about angry mama!

- They lay it out there, “Don’t suffer in silence.”  They want you to tell your co-workers, friends, family, “I have hemorrhoids, and I’m just like you.”  Well, yes, sort of, except that you’re the weird guy at the water cooler who shares a little too much about their private life at work.

- It’s fast, painless, and you can get back to work in no time!  You can even go running, have a BBQ, golf.

- Have you noticed that many of the people featured in the video have a weight problem?  Is this a symptom of hemmorroids, or is it just that the Midwest has an obescity problem?

- Why call it the Midwest Hemorrhoid Treatment Center?  Wouldn’t Hemorrhoid Treatment Center suffice?  Is there a Northeast Hemorrhoid Treatment Center?

- The last line in the jingle, “Don’t suffer in silence.”  They are really stressing this point.  I’m imagining a man sitting in his boxers eating Fruit Loops at 2 AM, seeing this commercial and thinking, “You’re so right, I don’t have to suffer this way anymore,” cue tears.

The people who produced this spot should make regionally specific commercials for Hemorrhoid Centers.  In the Northeast they’d have a guy eating a slice of pizza going, “Yo, does taking a dump make you cringe?  It ain’t you, it’s the hemorrhoids.”  The Hollywood version would feature a has been celebrity, perhaps Lindsay Lohan in a couple of years, “Hey guys, Lindsay Lohan here.  Right after Mean Girls it started to hurt everytime I went number 2.  I thought it was all the drugs and alcohol, but no, it was hemorrhoids.”

So guys, don’t suffer in silence, mmmmkay?!

I am thankful for so many things.  Of course there’s my friends and family (that’s a total ‘duh,’ right?), comedy, my job, etc. etc.  But you expect that, don’t you?  No, no, no, I feel it’s important to think about the little things that would dramatically alter how you live your life if it were not part of it.

I am thankful for…

- Coffee.  Just this morning, I returned from a 7 mile run and attempted to figure out my mother’s coffee pot, with no success.  I had a near breakdown in the kitchen.  Of course Mom saved the day.

- Conditioner, it’s the secret to my incredible head of hair.  Wash twice a week, condition every day!

- Zyrtec.  I have chronic hives, and Zyrtec controls them.  Thanks major pharmaceutical industry!

- The hole-in-the-wall frozen yogurt place by my apartment on Ave A between East 7th & East 8th.  Perfection!

- Soynut butter for allowing me to experience what peanut butter is like.

- My Epi pin for saving me whenever I confuse peanut butter for soynut butter.

- An impressionable young “straight” boy for taking my virginity.

- Diane Keaton for existing.

- The NY Times for giving me jokes daily (to be a good comic, ya gotta read the news!).

- God for not giving me too much body hair (but just enough).

Happy Thanksgiving y’all!

I used to hide the music that made me seem gay.  If I had a friend (or “friend”) over, I’d make sure that Madonna, Janet Jackson, Whitney Houston, especially Bette Midler, were all well hidden in the closet (typical, right?).  What was left were a handful of Bob Dylan albums, some Tom Petty, and a Led Zepplin album that I never listened to but got from my brother for the very purpose of masking my actual musical interests (strangly enough, that Led Zepplin was the catalyst that sparked the interest in the dude I lost my virginity too, so, thanks Led Zepplin!  wait, it’s probably not a person.)

Music continued to be the ultimate indicator of gayness, even as I got older.  Back in the day, everybody was into Dave Matthew’s Band.  I never got it.  I gravitated towards the alternative rockers, a lot of them lesbians.  Indigo Girls were big, Tegan & Sara, Tracy Chapman is another one.  But again, when you’re trying to be cool, just one of the guys, it’s really hard to make a convincing argument for Melissa Etheridge.

Then I discovered R&B.  Wow!  The very essence of old school R&B was just feeling the music, no matter who you were.  The music made you move, feel, get sad, get crazy.  Aretha (oh holy hell, Aretha!), Sam Cooke, Rufus Thomas (”Walking the Dog), Otis Redding, The Supremes, Carla Thomas (”Any Day Now”), Marvin Gaye, Isaac Hayes, etc.  This is the universal music, it inspired everybody, mainly because it was created out of respect for artists before them, respect for truth, respect for emotions, and respect for whatever makes you feel something (even if it is just to dance).  There’s a reason why it’s often called “Soul,” it comes from the soul, it comes from truth, and it comes from the freedom to be who you are and what you feel.

And it was R&B that gave me the courage to stand up for whatever I thought was good.  I can love Madonna, Indigo Girls, Tina Turner, Sam and Dave, Bright Eyes, Jenny Lewis, and Aretha, with pride!  There’s something pretty amazing about jumping from Lady Gaga to Carla Thomas, and then seeing the similarities between the two.

Music is meant to make you feel something, not make you feel insecure about what everybody else thinks is good or bad.

FYI - if you’re ever in NYC on a Friday night, go see Naomi Shelton at Fat Cats in the West Village (75 Christopher St), at 9pm.  You will be blown away!

“Ok! See you there. I’ll text again when I’m close. Yay, so exciting,” said the text.

I got to the bar early. (waiting. waiting. waiting. phone rings, it’s mom)

“Hello?”

“Scott, I had trouble getting a hold of you earlier so I wrote the message on your Facebook wall.” (do they make a facebook for dummies book?  they should!) “But I just wanted to let you know that your father has had a mini heart attack.” (what?! this is such bad timing!  and you wrote that on my facebook page?!)

Turns out he’s fine, needs rest, can’t exert much energy on anything.  Bed rest, best medicine.

Then he appeared.

“So nice to see you.” 

“I know, it’s so good to see you too.” (he’s cute.  should I tell him about the heart attack? no, don’t be a debbie downer.) “So my mom just told me my dad had a heart attack.” (i’m a fool.)

We pushed through, got a drink.  Conversation going well. (wow, he’s really cute.)

“Yeah, so I try to stay healthy, I’m an avid runner, work out a lot, eat right.” (except for those 2 massive slices of pizza i had earlier in the evening. do not mention this, it is not attractive.)

He’s looking into my eyes.  He likes how blue they are.  There’s silence.  This guy is into me.  It’s still silent.  (should i say something? do i have something in my teeth?) “Engage,” I say, then laugh, awkwardly.  (note to self, do not dramatically say engage to spur conversation, you’ll just wind up looking like a douche bag).

Break the tension, “Wow, I’ve got indigestion from that pizza I had earlier.” (way to not bring up the pizza from earlier!)

Awkward moments galore, but things are still going well.  A kiss is on the horizon.  Well, more than a kiss, good, old-fashioned making out will happen.  I can feel it in the air.  The silence is back.  For a comic, silence is not golden, it’s when you’ve lost your audience.  (kiss me already!) Bite the bullet, “If you wanna kiss me, you might as well go ahead and do it,” I say.  (smooth)

Commence make out session.

More making out.

Breath break.

Make out some more.

(did I floss?)

Time to leave.  We walk together down the street.  (it’s so nice to be back in new york city.  no city is better to date in than nyc.)  I’m a lady, I don’t give up this jelly on the first date.  mama taught me well.  and by well i mean how to be a prude)  But he digs my crazy Mormon influenced standards, which makes me dig him more.  This guy is hot!  

“Goodnight.”  Makeout more. “Okay, really, goodnight.”  Kiss again.  ”Seriously now, I gotta go.”  Kiss a little more. (i wonder if a terrorist homophobe is watching this blaent public display of affection and getting ready to lay some hate crime action on me? oh, who cares, this is fun!)

Commence walk home.  Better said, commence giddy walk of joy home.

I’m a rip the band aid off quickly type person.  What’s the point in doing it slowly and dragging the pain out?  (why do i speak in metaphors?)

Sometimes I can’t leave well enough alone. If something is  eating at me I’ve got to do it, even if I know it’s a bad idea.  Which is why, at times (and by “at times” i mean often), I am a fool.

I was talking with my best bud Lori White the other day (check her out here and here, oh yeah, and here), and we acknowledged that we give people the benefit of the doubt way too much.  People that, even though we’ve been wrong by them (or we’ve wronged them), we feel like there is something salvageable.  No relationship, be it of any kind, is totally a waste.  Which is why we have trouble just cutting someone out, not inviting them to the party (stop with the metaphors already!).  

So the urge to bring that person who was once a mainstay in your days and nights back into the fold is kind of irristable for people like Lori and I.  We’ll make the outreach, attempt to clear the air, put ourselves out there, and hopefully not get shot down.

But, let’s be honest, more often than not when we do these things we get shot down.  It’s not anybodies fault, it’s the way of the beast with social interactions and relationships (i love that saying, “way of the beast,” it reminds me of the rolling stones).  But the attempt is laudable, right?  It’s the attempt that matters!

I was reading the Ellen DeGeneres interview in the latest issue of Oprah’s magazine (stop judging me!),  and they were chatting about how there’s a lesson in everything you do.  Oprah said, “I always ask myself, ‘What does that mean?’ or ‘How does that event effect me in the long run?’”  (well, she’s Oprah, so I guess when bad things happen to her she just buys a cable TV network or opens a school in Africa and gains back her karma points)  But she does make a good point.  My decision to put myself out there, and get shot down, just gives me more strength.  In fact, I feel pretty good about everything.  The line from that songs sums it up, “Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again.”  Cheesy song, but awesome way to live!