Memo to Justin Bieber

Lately I’ve been reading about your antics: Threatening to beat up paparazzi photographers, getting drunk and peeing in a mop bucket, complaining about not winning music awards. Although you’ve traveled the world and made millions, you still have a lot of life ahead of you so I have some advice for you:

Just keep on doing what you’ve been doing. You’re the best!

Honestly, when I heard you were drunk and pissed in that bucket and cursed out a photo of President Clinton, I thought: There’s a young person who really has his act together. There’s someone who really comports himself with poise in the public eye. That’s behavior that your fans should emulate.

You know why else you’re great, Justin? The whining (or as you Canadians would say, whinging). I was charmed and beguiled by your reaction when your latest album didn’t win any Grammys. Rather than taking the high road and realizing that your career is young and you have many awards ahead, you chose to stomp around and throw a tantrum on Twitter. Finally, a celebrity with some self-awareness.

Your trip to the Anne Frank house just confirmed why I am so impressed by you. Sure, you could have signed the guest book and kept a low profile like the other visitors, focusing on the memory of the dead. Instead, you mentioned how you hoped Anne was a Belieber, keeping the focus squarely on you, which is as it should be in any memorial to a child who died in the Holocaust.

I admit I was skeptical when I first became aware of you. Your music and image seemed geared toward tweens and way too young for me to enjoy. But you’ve really evolved into a mature adult. When you swagger around with your shirt off and curse a blue streak at photographers, I think, “There’s a real man.” It’s a great look for you, Justin.

Speaking of great looks, I have to commend your fashion sense. I am loving that you look like you stepped out of the video for Bell Biv Devoe’s “Do Me.” It has a certain sophistication; a certain je ne sais quoi that will prove timeless in the decades to come.

And those pants with the drop crotch? They are true haute couture. You know you’re on the right track sartorially when people wonder how you can walk without tripping. I’d like to see the inseam drop even lower. Lower. Lower. That’s it. Perfect!

So keep up the good work, Justin. You’re right on track.

Bitchy Resting Face

All my life, I have suffered from a debilitating medical condition. It has made me the target of ridicule and stares from strangers on the street. It has literally made me miserable. I had nowhere to turn; no support group; no name for my affliction.

Until now. Now I hear I have something called Bitchy Resting Face.

Perhaps you’ve heard of this. I am one of thousands of Americans whose face does not default to a smile when at rest. My neutral face is either blank or a scowl. I could be deliriously happy but look like my dog just died. And now my condition has a name. And I am filled with relief (but of course, you won’t know that because I will still look sad/angry).  

We definitely need to raise awareness of Bitchy Resting Face because a lot of people try to help me and though their hearts are in the right place, they are misguided. I have had total strangers on the street tell me some version of “Smile. It can’t be that bad.”

This does not help my disease for several reasons. First off, telling a stranger to smile is actually more depressing than cheering because it implies that there is something wrong with me or wrong with my face. This is just how I look and I can’t do too much about that. Hey, you might be ugly and I might not like that, but I’m not going to tell you to change your appearance. I’m going to do something called “mind my own business” because I don’t know you.

My face and I do not need an intervention. We are fine. And I will not remember you as some kind of guardian angel who turns my life around with your simple, kind comments.

But let’s say I do decide to do something about my Bitchy Resting Face because hey, everyone can smile, right? Well, unless they’re having a stroke. Someone says, “Smile!” I plaster on a fake smile. The person says, “That’s not a real smile.” Really? You can’t command someone to express an emotion and expect it to be genuine? Who knew? 

Now that Bitchy Resting Face finally has the validation it deserves, I would like to offer my sour-faced peers some advice for what to say when someone tells you to “Smile!”

·      “No.”

·      “I thought they canceled Candid Camera.”

·      “Mind your own business.”

·      “Frown. Oh, wait — I thought we were doing one of those free association things. Like you say ‘black’ and I say ‘white.’ Who are you again?”

·      “Walk away and I might.”

·      “Oh, my God, are you from a modeling agency?! I always had a feeling I’d get discovered outside the Wawa someday and now I have been! It’s funny — I’ve dreamed of this moment for so long and now it’s here and I don’t know what to say! Make sure you get my good side!”

·      “(bursts into tears and runs away)”

Since my affliction now has international attention, I assume awareness fundraising for Bitchy Resting Face cannot be far behind. I’m organizing a 5K to benefit me and people like me and I hope to get together that race soon. On second thought, let’s skip organizing anything. Just go outside and run around for awhile. And write me a check when you’re done. 

Just Like Water, Only Less Convenient

Now that summer is in full swing, it’s time we discussed one of the season’s most special treats. It’s time we had an in-depth discussion of the wonders of watermelon.

The people at the National Watermelon Promotion Board were savvy enough to send this to my workplace to see if they could get promotion for their fruit in our medical magazine. Unfortunately, while there’s just not space for this in our publication, I thought I’d do my part and promote the watermelon here.

Watermelon is OK. I’ll eat it if it’s out but I won't seek it out. I guess it’s a healthy fruit since it’s mostly water but sometimes I want my water without the inconvenience of picking seeds out of my teeth.

The people at Big Watermelon are changing my perception, however. They have built an empire on this unwieldy fruit. They are on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and YouTube. Their literature has one of those smart phone codes and the little squares are red and green like watermelons. They even sent me a CD-ROM (WOW!) of information.

The colorful pamphlet contains so many mouth-watering recipes (they are guaranteed to be mouth watering because when you eat watermelon, you are basically drinking water). They suggest chipotle wings, which go so much better if I have to pick seeds out of my teeth in addition to watching for bones. The mozzarella sandwich is a great idea since nothing pairs with a slice of cheese better than an ephemeral fruit. The flip-flop cake is not only cute but the combination of lines of sugary icing on top of a bed of watermelon looks delicious. In the morning, who doesn’t have time to sit down and enjoy a six-layer (only six?) breakfast trifle with watermelon? As the pamphlet notes, you can serve that at your next garden party! Because we all live in Downton Abbey!

Best of all, watermelon is great on the grill. The best part is when the heat melts it into red water.

So won’t you check out the wonders of summer watermelon? It’s just like water, only less convenient.  

Enjoy the processed hog anus

It was their faces that turned my stomach on today’s morning shows. Alarmingly pink and bloated with hot dog particles sputtering from their mouths. I got the sense that the second the cameras were off, these people vomited in a great reverse-swallow shower of processed pork, drenching the Fourth of July crowd in the pre-digested symbolism of their unholy hunger.

Oh, I’m sorry. Does my description make you sick? It should because it made me sick to watch it. It should make everyone sick because the very idea is sickening on several levels. I have railed against competitive eating before. After watching a clip from the hot dog eating contest this morning, I must again vent my disgust at this whole gluttonous, knuckle-dragging endeavor.

Purely on a level of taste, it makes me bottomlessly sick to watch people eat hot dogs. For as long as I can remember, I have never been able to stand those nasty pork tubes so the idea of people shoving a bunch of them down their throats is instant ipecac for me. For me, a hot dog will forever be what it was on The Simpsons: A combination of a shoe, a pigeon, a rat and a raccoon.  

But it doesn’t matter what these people eat because I have no sense of humor or fun when it comes to competitive eating. I can put up with a lot of stupid shit but as far as competitive eating, I’m out. At the risk of sounding like a nagging parent, there are people in this country who don’t have enough to eat. The rest of us should at least have the decency not to shovel as much shit as we can down our gullets. The people in these contests should have some fucking dignity.

I think it’s hilarious that this pig contest took place in the same New York where the mayor is banning large sodas due to concerns of gluttony but has no problem with people eating dozens of hot dogs in two minutes. So you can cram as much processed hog anus into your intestines as you can but you can only have a small soda to help the filth down sluice down your throat. Because the real problem in that tableau is high fructose corn syrup.

But of course, barely suppressing your hot dog vomit long enough to collect a prize is a tradition and as we all know, all traditions are beyond criticism and I should lighten up and USA! USA! USA!

No documentaries and no stand-up comedy

Never ask me to watch a documentary or stand-up comedy. Those are two types of movies that I have no interest in.

The only type of documentary I would watch is a biography of a celebrity. Otherwise, forget it. If your subject is interesting enough, I’ll read a book on it, but I won’t watch a documentary movie. I suppose I reserve movies for fiction only.

I don’t like those documentaries that have a preconceived notion for which the directors find evidence to prove. Documentaries should be more along the lines of a scientist testing a hypothesis without any bias. So I have no interest in watching movies by Michael Moore or Bill Maher or hagiographies of Sarah Palin because I know what the conclusion will be. I mean, is anyone really surprised that Maher concludes that religions are all a little bit wacky? I could have told you that right off and saved you two hours. I agree with Al Gore about the environment but I certainly won’t watch him talk about it. Just give me your ideas in bullet point form and I’ll try to be more conscientious.

This will sound awful but I especially have no interest in documentaries on people who are downtrodden. This includes inner city kids who get that one shot at redemption when their school enters a contest to OH GOD I’M SO BORED. Just write me something and I’ll read it.

As for stand-up comedy, maybe I would enjoy a show if I ever saw one live. But when we’re looking for something on Netflix, the absolute last category for me would be a stand-up comedy special. I guess I just need my comedy to be fiction. I don’t understand why the idea of watching someone tell jokes in front of an audience fills me with aggravation and boredom but it does.

Plus, stand-up comedians as a group seem very thin-skinned and self-important. I keep reading these debates about what type of jokes are appropriate (rape, etc.) and comedians seem to get extremely offended at any type of criticism and carry on as if their choice of joke is the most important issue facing us today. And it just isn’t — not to me, anyway.

Also of little importance is whether or not comedians get heckled or under what circumstances people are allowed to heckle them or how they handle heckling. I keep seeing articles about this stuff and I feel like it’s a subject that is of interest to comedians and nobody else. Airing this out in public is like a company going public with boring inside baseball debates that are better left in the conference room. It’s a shame you got heckled but it’s basically a bad day at work for you. I’m sure you’ll live. Millions do after they have a bad day. I have bad days at work too but I keep the saga to myself and certainly don’t bore the generally public with it like stand-up comedians do.

Ding Dong DOMA Dead

The Defense of Marriage Act is dead and now those of us gay people who are legally married (or getting there as we will soon convert our civil union into a marriage) can expect federal benefits and recognition, the same as any other married couple.

I am gratified that the Supreme Court invoked the Fifth Amendment’s equal protection clause in this decision. As the opinion by Justice Kennedy says, “DOMA instructs all federal officials, and indeed all persons with whom same-sex couples interact, including their own children, that their marriage is less worthy than the marriages of others.”

I am no constitutional expert but on a human level, the gay marriage for me debate boiled down to this: If marriage is good enough for straight couples who have known each other for 10 days, it’s good enough for couples like Steve and I, who have been in a committed relationship for 10 years. And 10 years is nothing — look how long Edie Windsor and Thea Spyer were together before they got married. What was the purpose to DOMA other than to be a mean-spirited denial of rights to a group of people? It wasn’t a defense of the institution of marriage as much as being vigilant that the wrong people didn’t get into the country club.

The key problem with DOMA and the heart of the gay marriage debate was the idea that my marriage would be “less worthy than the marriages of others.” I am lucky enough that none of my friends or family ever saw my relationship as less than a straight relationship (Exhibit A: the outpouring of love at our wedding). I felt like for some people, the opposition to gay marriage was rooted in a desire to keep gay people at a lower status.

It’s not just about the Social Security benefits; it’s about feeling your relationship and your life is worth as much as anyone else’s. This decision is another step toward deleting the scare quotes around the word marriage for gay people. I am lucky enough that people in my life acknowledge my relationship but a lot of gay people aren’t and I hope they’re starting to breathe a little easier now.

I felt like for years, the conversation about gay relationships went as follows:

Gay couple: We’ve been in a committed relationship for years and would like the same rights as straight couples.

Person in charge: Too bad. You two aren’t married so you can’t have them.

Gay couple: Well … can we get married then?

Person in charge: No.

It’s like we were being told we couldn’t have something and then being penalized for not having it.

Without marriage, longtime gay relationships were sort of formless. There was no word for what people had, nothing that carried the weight of marriage and all the commitment that implies. Someone could be your partner but that was just a vague (and kind of clinical) designation. In upholding traditional marriage (which, by the way, I do support as my parents have had one for 40 years and I am the product of it), some people seemed to be holding gay relationships as a lesser status.

That’s what kills me: How alike gay and straight marriages and relationships are. Sometimes I wonder, what do people think gay couples do? We’re not doing molly at the white party every weekend. We’re laughing at sitcoms and doing laundry and having the same stupid arguments like every other couple does.

The fight is not over and gay couples in most of America still cannot marry. But the fact that DOMA is dead, and that the government recognizes our marriage as equal to a straight marriage adds to the feeling of acceptance we’ve already felt from our friends and family. It’s enormously important and empowering.

I had the most catered dream

I dreamed I became some sort of wedding planner. I was in our kitchen with my parents, Jeanine and a bunch of other people. We were cooking for an upcoming wedding.

Someone asked me where the paper towels were because we had run out. I said they were under the sink. The person who asked seemed confused about this and needed more specifics. “Just fucking open the cabinet door,” I snapped.

I didn’t mean to snap but did the person really think I had nothing better to do than give explicit instructions for where to find the paper towels? I was planning a wedding. Figure it out on your own.

The next day I stopped over Ann’s house to do some more work on the wedding. Erik was there watching TV. He made some sort of hilariously vile comment, merging two nasty terms for genitalia into one catchy portmanteau. I can’t remember what it was.

This dream was even more surreal than most because I have no desire to become any sort of event planner. I have already been through the D-Day like machinations of planning a wedding and have no desire to plan anyone else’s, thank you very much. We had fun and everything but it got to be a little much at times with putting together all those favors and centerpieces. Luckily, Salero was very organized and helpful so I had no stress there.

I can’t imagine being a wedding planner. Now that my own is over, I just want to sit back for awhile and be a guest at other people’s functions and only have to worry about showing up on time.