I’ve never accepted my adult body.  When I get out of the shower and catch a glimpse of my manhood I ask God, “Really?”

As a child penis’s looked so much bigger on grown ups.  Come to think of it, as an adult penis’s look bigger on everyone else too.

I’m a city boy, I love the energy, excitement and thrills of living in populous areas filled with interesting characters.  But city life sometimes requires creativity in order to blend functionality and convenience into your existence.

My problem: I run to the gym to amplify the total work out gained, but my gym requires a towel (and doesn’t provide one, WTF?!?).  I need to run with as few items as possible, what am I to do?  Solution: I purchased a very cute and functional towel that serves as a head wrap (very Lawrence of Arabia), AND a towel at the gym.

I wear this urban functional towel to the gym for the first time the other day.  Sweaty from my run, I remove the towel from my head and whipe the perspiration away as I walk into the weight run.

“Where’s your towel,” a rent-a-cop security lady at the gym asks me in a Rosie Perez like, sassy way.  Excited to show her how fantastically functional this towel is, I proceed to explain the many perks of this $40 gem I stumbled upon.

“You and I both know that’s not a towel,” she says, sass in full force, hand on waist, a snap and twist couldn’t be far off.

“Don’t presume to know what I know,” I tell her, getting irritated that Blanca, that’s what I named her in my head, couldn’t understand the greatness of the towel.

Words were exchanged, things got heated, and I demanded to see the manager.  The moments that passed were awkward and frustrating, how could she question me, who was SHE to question ME?

Up the stairs came a man that could have performed as the body double for the big black guy in The Green Mile.  He wore a badge that read “Manager,” and I swear I noticed the lights flicker.  With a deep breath I asked myself, “Is this going to be my hate crime?”

“I don’t have time for this,” I protested, looking up at the urban Jolly Green Giant.  “You have wasted my time, I have meetings, important things.  Goodbye!”

I literally ran home, defeated and ashamed.  And I’m out $40 on a shit towel!

I have a high tolerance for pain. Actual pain. When it comes to emotional pain, like matters of the heart, I’m a big softy.

I once dated this guy, well, calling it dating is a stretch, we fucked around. Actually, he fucked and I accommodated.

He was gorgeous, deep, introverted, tortured soul type character. He was like most Johnny Depp characters before he did those pirate movies.

What he liked, I liked. He was into tattoo’s, I got three of em. He enjoyed alcohol, I learned unique drink mixtures (and I don’t drink!). He dug piercings, so I got a bunch of em. My tongue, eyebrow, had my ears stretched, etc.

But I wanted to do something special for him. I wanted to get a piercing that was so unique, he couldn’t help but to take notice, acknowledge my selfless act (aka deprivation) and love me in return, naturally. I got my taint pierced.

SIDENOTE: Those in the biz call it a paranium piercing, but that doesn’t sit well with me (no pun intended). Paranium makes it sound too much like a flower.

He eventually left me, for a woman! All I’ve got to show for our (my) love is a hole in my taint and a couple stretch marks from the stress weight I gained in the months following our demise. I’ve gotten rid of all of my piercings except the taint, I’m too afraid to take it out. I’m single, it would be too awkward to ask one of my friends for assistance. But it could potentially be comedy gold? Hmmm?

I’ve written about this before, and anybody who knows me in my private life will sigh when I say: Does nobody understand urban etiquette?  The rules are not difficult:

- Stay to the right on the sidewalk.

- Keep up as best you can with the flow of sidewalk traffic.

- Use your inside voice while on the phone.

- Don’t carry a concealed weapon.

Are those too much to ask of urban dwellers?  I think not.

I was walking down West 23rd Street, a popular street that goes through the center of Manhattan.  As I was merrily passing by, eagerly anticipating the political campaign memorabilia show I was on my way to, I happened upon a rather robust gentleman going in the same direction as I.  As he made his way down the street he would wildly flail his arms (mostly because his girth made it difficult for him to lay his arms flat against his side). 

Any snickle, a decision was in order.  Should I slow my pace and stay behind this guy or try to pass him?  Of course I was going to pass him.  I moved to the right, so did he.  I moved to the left, so did he.  This dance lasted for a half a block until my frustration level reached its boiling point. 

Breath in, breath out, focus on the happy place.  Think happy thoughts: Banana’s, “The Golden Girls,” Anderson Cooper in a speedo.  What’s that smell?  WTF?!?!  Did he just fart?  AW F*$#*% NO!

“Make a decision,” I yelled.  As I yelled he stopped, which caused me to move quickly to the right so as to not run into his stanky ass.  It was then that I noticed he had a cane and wore the massive sunglasses blind people wear.  I guess that means he’s blind.  Holy hell!

I love black people.  I do, I really, really, do.  I love them so much that sometimes I feel perhaps I was born into the wrong race.  No offense to people of Asain, Hispanic, Indian, etc. dissent, but I just don’t feel as strong of an affinity for your race as I do the black race.  You’re fantastic, I love your foods, but nothing could be more fantastic than soul food.  Nothing.

 When I was a kid I would accuse people of being racist, even if I knew different.  My mom wouldn’t let a black friend of mine spend the night, so she was a racist (no matter that my friend was known in the neighborhood for being a klepto).  I’d get a bad grade on a test, “I got the D because Mrs. Stevens hates that I have black friends.” McDonalds would run out of Chicken McNuggets, obviously a conspiracy, they only gave the good stuff to ignorant customer’s with bad fashion sense and no rhythm.  Yes, I was a little Rev. Al Sharpton.

Unfortunately I never seem to measure up when I attend mostly black events.  I’ll go to clubs, outdoor gatherings, church with my black friends, even though I’m not austrisized in these settings, I’m not apart of the fluid movement that transpires.  I’m the white guy who just really loves black people.  I’ll move to the music, eat whatever I’ve got to, discuss the issues of the day in an informed manner, but nothing works, I will always be that guy. 

 Of course I would never try to act like something I’m not, people like that are just mocking the community.  I am white, I accept that, own it; I’m just a guy with a touch of chocolate mixed into the cream. 

 So I’m purposing a new club, Association of White Inhabitants Loving Blacks Young and Old (or AWILBYO - honestly, I created the title of the club so it would have a fun acronym, but unfortunately I’m not creative enough to do this, so suggestions for new names is very much welcomed).  You know you wanna join!  And as a free gift for joining, you will receive a membership to BET’s e-mail alerts. 

I would like to leave you with a quote from Penny Pingleton from the musical Hairspray, I feel she perfectly sums up exactly how I feel, “In my ivory tower, life was just a Hostess snack, but now I’ve tasted chocolate, and I’m never goin’ back!”

“The eagle shits tomorrow,” my father said to me while we were watching Dr. 90210.

“They aren’t extent yet,” I replied.

“No, the eagle shits tomorrow.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“He shits a nice golden nugget.”

I wrapped my brain around what he said as if it were a code I must decipher, ala The Da Vinci Code.

Eagle - symbol of the United States

Shits - to let go of something, release it

Golden - worth something of value, often monetary

Nugget - a lump of something precious, possibly of monetary value

Tomorrow - is Friday.

“You get paid tomorrow,” I yelped the moment I solved the puzzle.

My father doesn’t realize that not everybody is clued into the voices in his head. “The eagle shits,” is not a universally recognized idiom like, “Can’t teach an old dog new tricks,” or, “Kick the bucket.” Yes, it is witty, but you can’t just say it and expect people to get it.

I say we bring it into fashion. Next time you recognize it’s almost payday, tell it to your co-worker. In a few short years we might have created America’s new favorite idiom!

Send me an email at HAlanScott@gmail.com

I’m a happy guy. Sometimes I can be mellow, often boring, but I’m pretty much happy through out it all. So why is it that I find myself surrounded by Debbie Downers?

Everyone I’ve come in contact with lately (excluding Lori) has been angry, upset or sad. WTF people?!? “It’s the most wonderful time of the year,” so said some dead old white guy. Hell, he’s dead and happy, why can’t that joy spread to others?

I think it’s because most people don’t have enough fiber in their diet, especially during the holidays. Everyone’s just walking around hoping for a good poop. They eat a sugar cookie, maybe some peppermint bark, a little turkey here and there, but what about a good apple? No, apple pie doesn’t count (or does it?).

So to all the negative nellies out there, shut up and eat a prune!

FYI, Marry Poppins is on, it’s Friday, and I’m totally willing to cancel plans just to watch it. When did I become this gay? Dick Van Dyke is dreamy!

Send me an email at HAlanScott@gmail.com

Sometimes I feel I’m not doing enough to help mankind. This desire to get out and volunteer happens every couple of months, typically around the time when I have an ample amount of free time. What a great way to spend your free time, right? The only kicker is many of my past attempts have fallen flat.

I once volunteered for a food delivery organization that gave meals to very ill people. I helped out in the food preparation part of the process. A cookie was to be placed with each meal. I noticed many of the volunteers snacking on cookies. So naturally I took a cookie for myself. It was yummy. How could I stop at just one? So I had another, and then another.

“What are you doing?” the man in charge asked.

Puzzled, with a mouthful, I responded, “I’m helping the needy.”

“By eating their food?”

Huh? “The other volunteers were eating cookies, so I thought…”

“Yes, they were, the volunteer cookies from the volunteer reception area. NOT the cookies about to be delivered to AIDS patients.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize… they’re just so tasty, how could I stop at just one?” Nothing I could say would make things better. “Wow, look at the time, I should go. It’s been great, yeah, just fantastic!”

Walking the walk of shame to my car, I thought, ‘Hey, they WERE tasty AIDS cookies.”

Send me an email at HAlanScott@gmail.com

I’m horrible with men. I don’t know what to do with them. One will take an interest in me and eventually I’ll treat them like a pesky waitress at TGIFriday’s, “YES, I’m doing fine, leave me alone!”

The root of my trepidation with men comes from my FFF (Former Fat Fuck) days. In a way it was easier to date as a fatty, I compensated with humor, which made me a fantastic date. Unfortunately most of my humor was based on fat jokes. A skinny guy telling a fat joke about himself just doesn’t hold the hilarity needed to make a lasting impression.

Of course the real kicker is the type of guys that take an interest in me. I seem to attract bipolar and/or shallow guys who lack the chutzpah needed to keep up with me. The shallow behavior can easily be mistaken for confidence, but typically I don’t find out about the bipolar disorder until we’ve already moved in together and are planning to adopt a Chinese baby.

So who is my ideal man? Well, he’d have to be funny (but not funnier than me). So I guess he’d have to have a little Steve Carell in him. I’d like him to have the intelligence of Anderson Cooper with the spontaneity of Steve Martin. (Sidebar: I think I have a thing for a older guys, hmmmm?). I’d also like him to have a little Betty White in him, just cause she’s gives all in her presence that homey feeling. I wonder what this creation would look like?
Yes boys and girls, it’s Jesse Irwin, my new love and the lead singer of the Dock Ellis Band. I wrote about him and the band a couple of blogs ago, check out the video. If only Jesse knew about our love, he’d probably write a witty song about it and book a chapel in Massachusetts.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

BTW, loving the snow here in the Midwest. It’s certainly a winter wonderland.Gotta go play, peace out friends!

Send me an email at TheScottBlog@gmail.com

I have a new boyfriend. His name is Jesse Irwin, the lead singer for the Dock Ellis Band.

Words don’t give this fella justice, he’s just that cool. The beard, the man, the band - all are amazing. But it’s all about the music. Check out their MySpace page to get a little sample wample.

Below is a clip of Jesse singing “Crystal Meth.” I love a man whose aware of the issues facing Americans.

I told you! He’s dreamy, admit it.

Send me an email at TheScottBlog@gmail.com