I’m afraid of bread. And cheese. I convince myself that honey is better than sugar, but in the back of my head I know they’re just the same thing hidden behind a cute little bear container. Going to town on some hummus (which I’m an expert at) can keep me up half the night wondering why I’ve made the decisions I’ve made in my life. Cough drops are candy. Gum, no matter how much I chew, will never be an adequate appetite suppressant.

This is my brain (picture frying pan). This is my brain on food (picture egg being cracked into frying pan).

This is my brain on food imagining that the egg is cooked to be a little runny, with salt and pepper, and a veggie sausage (because veggie is better then real meat, right?), with toast in the toaster (to sop up the runny egg), maybe some Yogurt, Greek yogurt, Fage (pronounced “Fa-yeh”), with honey (as stated above), with some granola (not nuts, I’m allergic), and a big glass of orange juice, and coffee with soy milk (protein, right?). I’ll avoid the croissant (but think about it through out the meal).

I’m from St. Louis, Missouri, the “Show Me State.” As I’ve gotten older it’s become apparent that the meaning behind “show me” is “show me the deep fryer.” I’m not about to poo poo on the great Midwestern diet of canned corn (sometimes creamy), potatoes and fried chicken, but rather use it as a means to illustrate how the constant presence of mayonnaise in my life influenced the way I eat and think about food today.

A typical day growing up would be…

BREAKFAST: Cereal. Sounds non-threatening, but typically resulted in multiple bowls featuring such spokesmen as a talking tiger, a leprechaun or the cast of “The Flinstones.”

LUNCH: A meat sandwich of some kind (mayonnaise!), with chips, a hostess cupcake, some gummies, a soda, and carrots (which would be left to rot in my bag while it sat out in the sun).

DINNER: One or two servings of some canned food, a starch (which meant mashed, baked, or scalloped potatoes), and meat. Followed by a sheet cake.

After dinner I retired to the living room to watch TV, a bag of chips and soda would accompany me. And of course you needed a snake right before bed, which would be ice cream or, if I was being healthy, a bowl of cereal. Multiple bowls.

At 23 I weighed 275 lbs.

Living in New York has a natural way of slimming you down. Not by walking, but out of the hope that you’ll get laid. I lost the weight, mainly focusing on eating what the Food Pyramid told me to. And running, lots and lots of running. But that wasn’t enough. I gave up soda (except Fresca) and deep fried foods. Then meat (except fish). Then fish. In 20 years I will figure out a way to survive only on bananas and twigs.

I love bananas.

I love bananas so much that I had to give them their own paragraph.

Bananas.

I did it again.

From a childhood of obsessive eating to an adulthood of obsessive control over what I eat, you can imagine how difficult it is to just simply eat. I eat a lot but I hate eating. It calms me down and drives me crazy. It fuels my life and brings it down. Apparently it also makes me write in metaphors.

Someone once told me that I should go to an Overeaters Anonymous meeting. I thanked her for the suggestion (and imagined myself punching her vagina). Food is everywhere, and somehow I’ve managed to control myself so it doesn’t drive me crazy. Somehow being on the border between functioning adult and obsessive-compulsive foodie works for me.

Except when I see kids eating bags of Doritos’s and I want to ask them, “Does your mother know you’re eating that?” Obviously I know that his mother likely gave him the bag to begin with. So it’s all on me to control myself, not judge too much, and actively strive to eat what I know to be right and healthy.

Bananas.

I try to be emotionally honest sexually.  Unfortunately an ugly cry after sex isn’t a turn on for most people (and if it does turn you on, we’re not cut out for one another).

I’m in the midst of a very long dry spell, the length of which I will refrain from saying.  We’ve all been there (at least that’s what I’m telling myself).  It’s not that I’m not actively trying.  I’ve done…

• ONLINE DATING: You name the website (or iPhone application), I’ve done it.  My favorite are the guys who say they are looking for a long term relationship, something serious, and then their profile picture is of their asshole.
• THE BAR SCENE: This is a great idea in theory, but only leads to the guy following you into the bathroom and attempting to grab your junk as you pee.
• FRIEND SET UPS: My least favorite of everything I’ve tried.  Classic story, your friend knows somebody perfect for you, “You both have SOOOO much in common,” they say.   So you reluctantly agree to the blind date, only to learn that the only thing you have in common is that you both have a slight weight problem.

Pat was right, love is a battlefield.  On the bright-side, if you’re fighting in the battle, you get to be on a first name basis with Pat Benatar.

My biggest struggle is that, contrary to the majority of the New York gay community, I’m not as sexually inclined.  I do not giggle when the words “top” or “bottom” are used; I’ve only not known the name of one person I’ve slept with (the “Chinese Armpit Licker” is a more apt name for him then whatever his actual name is); and randomly hooking up is next to impossible for me. This is mainly because, nine times out of ten, the cereal box I was snacking on the night before is still on my bed (embarrassing but true).

Thanks to the movie Bridesmaids, I’ve been thinking a lot about the song “Hold On” by Wilson Phillips.  This power ballad from the 80′s holds a lot of meaning, and just as many life lessons.

I know this pain (especially Carnie)

Why do you lock yourself up in these chains

No one can change your life expect for you (right?!)

Don’t ever let anyone step all over you (SMACKDOWN!)

Just open your heart and your mind

Is it really fair to feel this way inside? (Rhetorical, yes, but an incredibly important life question)

It’s all about holding out really.  Just keep doing it.  Because, as we’ve learned from Wilson Phillips, “Things can change/ Things will go your way / If you just hold on… for one more day!”

Basically what I’m saying is if Carnie Wilson can do it, then I certainly can.  Just shoot me from above.

Wilson Phillips – Hold On by EMI_Music

I write jokes in my room, which I pay $850 to live in.  Technically it’s not only my bedroom, but it’s also my office.  That’s tax deductable, right?

Is deductable a word?

Turns out it’s not (thanks New York!).  It’s not deductable I mean.  The jury is still out on the existence of the word.

I’ve never seen this jury though, so don’t quote me on that (especially if it’s not a real word).

I’m prompt with everything in my life – except taxes.  I put them off until the very last minute.  They aren’t out of my mind entirely, I begin to think about them after the start of the new year.  I think about how much I earned (or how little), how much I can deduct, and why don’t I listen to my mother and actually keep receipts.

Typically I wait until tax day to do them, but this year I filed a full 5 days before the deadline (you’re welcome Obama).

Regardless of whether you get money back or not, actually filing your taxes is the governments way of giving you a heavy dose of tough love.

One of the first things they asked me was if I had children (I do not).  Then they just assumed that I’m single, which I’m convinced was because of the inflection in my voice.  Then they start going down the list…

• You’ve earned such amount
• You’ve spent such amount
• You have no savings
• And you’re wanting to deduct your gym membership?

Who are they to judge me?!?!  You don’t know my life!

I wound up getting money back, albeit very little.  You know you’ve become a full fledged adult when you find out you’re getting money back, and the first thing you do is think “I can pay off my credit card.”

Well, it’s not all going to the credit card bill.  Fresca isn’t free!

“I am Banana Man,“ I would scream as I ran around the house with a “cape” (a long-sleeve shirt wrapped around my neck) and underwear (possibly clean) on my head.  Nothing in particular would turn me into this potassium rich superhero, but at the age of 6, does one really need an explanation for what they do?  I was such an indoor kid, my running around the house served as the only real exercise I got.  Once I got to the kitchen, I would proceed to eat as many banana’s as I could, and then take off yelling, “I am Banana Man!“  Eventually the banana binge would catch up with me, and I’d keel over, my stomach aching, and fall asleep.

Looking back, I see this as the single most significant child rearing technique my mother used: let them make themselves sick so they will pass out.

You would think this behavior would lessen my interest in banana’s as an adult, but you would be wrong, I love them!  I’ll eat the shit out of anything banana and/or banana like.  Because I’m allergic to most nuts, I get violently angry when I discover a banana centric dish that has nuts.  It’s very difficult for me to make it through a day without eating a banana.

Which is why my discovery of Tropical Race 4 in a fascinating article in the New Yorker stopped me dead in my tracks.  TR4 (I’m down with the terminology) is a mutated strain from Panama disease (which caused the wilting of banana’s back in the day), and was discovered in the mid-90′s.  The current banana everyone in the U.S. eats is the Canvendish (it’s the only one sold in most stores), which was created in the 1960′s to combat Panama disease (which killed off most of the old-school banana’s we used to eat, the Gros Michel).  But now TR4 is going after Cavendish!  The only real solution to TR4 is to create a genetically produced banana, which won’t sell.  UGH!

The past couple of days I’ve purchased banana’s that were a little green.  It’s difficult for me not to tear into a banana immediately (as you can imagine).  After I ripped open the recently purchased banana’s, they turned out to be not ripe, leaving a horrible taste in my mouth.  My first thought, “Oh my God, what if I’ve just eaten a TR4 banana?!?!  Could I have TR4?!”  Even today, I had to spit out my banana.

This just has me beside myself.  I can’t imagine a world where the banana’s I binge ate as I child no longer exist.  And if I have TR4 now, I’ll have it with pride, and use the little bit of notoriety that I have to bring awareness to the plight of banana’s, and Banana Men, around the world.

I Am Banana Man!!!

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.

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!